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CLARA  HOWARD; 


IN 


A  SERIES  OF  LETTERS. 


¥ 


;Y  the  author  OF  WTELAXD,  ORMONE, 
ARTHUR  MERVYN,  EDGAR  HUNTLY,  &C. 


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-%  Pj  ^  O  •'7  /I 

PHILADELPHIA: 

PUBLISHED  BY 


ASBURY  DICKINS,  OPPOSITE   CHRIST-CHURCH: 
II,   MAXWELL,  PRINTER,  COLUMBIA-HOUSE. 


1801, 


COPY-RIGHT  SECURED. 


INTRODUCTION. 

Treasure  RoOm 


TO 


W  HAT  could  excite  in  you  any 
curiosity  as  to  my  affairs  ?  You  once  knew 
me  a  simple  lad,  plying  the  file  and  twee- 
zers at  the  bench  of  a  watchmaker,  with 
no  prospect  before  me  but  of  labouring, 
for  a  few  years,  at  least,  as  a  petty  and 
obscure  journeyman,  at  the  same  bench 
where  I  worked  five  years  as  an  appren- 
tice. I  was  sprung  from  obscurity,  desti- 
tute of  property,  of  parents,  of  paternal 
friends;  was  full  of  that  rustic  diffidence, 
that  inveterate  humility,  which  are  alone 
sufficient  to  divert  from  us  the  stream  of 
fortune's  favours. 

1  0  ?7  O  ^  A 


[     iv     ] 

Such  was  I  three  years  ago !  Now  am  I 
rich,  happy,  crowned  with  every  terres- 
trial feUcity,  in  possession  of  that  most 
exquisite  of  all  blessings,  a  Avife,  endowed 
with  youth,  grace,  dignity,  discretion. 

I  do  not,  on  second  thoughts,  wonder 
at  your  curiosity.  It  was  impossible  for 
me  to  have  foreseen,  absurd  to  have  hoped 
for  such  a  destiny.  All  that  has  happened, 
w^as  equally  beyond  my  expectations  and 
deservings. 

You  ask  me  how  all  these  surprising 
things  came  about?  The  inclosed  letters, 
which  I  have  put  into  a  regular  series, 
contain  all  the  information  you  wish. 
The  pacquet  is  a  precious  one;  you  will 
find  in  it,  a  more  lively  and  exact  picture 
of  my  life,  than  it  is  possible,  by  any  other 
means,  to  communicate.  Preserve  it, 
therefore,  with  care,  and  return  it  safely 
and  entire,  as  soon  as  you  have  read  it. 


CLARA  HOWARD, 


LETTER  I. 


TO  CLARA  HOWARD. 

New-York,  March  7, 

W  HY  do  I  write?  For  whose  use  do  I 
pass  my  time  thus  ?  There  is  no  one  living  who 
cares  a  jot  for  me.  There  was  a  time,  when  a 
throbbing  heart,  a  trembling  hand,  and  eager 
eyes  were  always  prepared  to  read,  and  rumi- 
nate on  the  scantiest  and  poorest  scribble  that 
dropped  from  my  pen,  but  she  has  disappeared. 
The  veil  between  us  is  like  death. 

Yet  why  should  I  so  utterly  despair  of  find- 
ing her?  What  all  my  toils  may  not  accomplish, 
may  be  effected  at  a  moment  the  legist  expected, 
and  in  a  manner  the  least  probable.  I  may 
travel  a  thousand  miles,  north  and  south,  and 


6  CLARA  HOWARD. 

not  find  her.  I  may  lingeringly  and  reluctantly 
give  up  the  fruitless  search,  and  return  home. 
A  few  hours  after,  I  may  stroll,  in  melancholy, 
hopeless  mood,  into  the  next  street.. ..and  meet 
her.  By  such  invisible  threads  is  the  unwit- 
ting man  led  through  this  maze  of  life. 

But  how  will  she  be  met?  Perhaps. ...horrid 
thought  !...she  may  have  become  vile,  polluted; 
and  how  shall  I  endure  to  meet  her  in  that 
condition.  One  so  delicate,  carr}^ing  dignity 
to  the  verge.... beyond  the  verge  of  pride;  pre- 
ferring to  starve  rather  than  incur  contempt. 
But  that  degradation  is  impossible. 

Yet,  if  she  dreaded  not  my  censure,  if  she  de- 
spaired not  of  my  acquiescence  in  her  schemes, 
why  conceal  from  me  her  flight  ?  Why  not 
leave  behind  her  a  cold  farewel.  Could  she 
be  insensible  to  the  torments  and  inquietudes 
which  her  silence  would  entail  upon  me.  Could 
she  question  the  continuance  and  fervency  of 
my  zeal  for  her  welfare  ?  What  have  I  done 
to  estrange  her  heart,  to  awaken  her  resent- 
ment? 

She  does  not  live  with  Sedley.  Thatques- 
tion  Mr.  Phillips's  report  has  decided.  Atleast 
she  does  not  live  with  him  as  hia  xvife,   Impos- 


CLARA  HOWARD.  7 

sible  that  Mary  Wilmot  should  be  allied  to  any 
man  by  a  different  tie.  It  is  sacrilege  so  much 
as  to  whisper  to  one's  heart  the  surmise.  Yet 
have  I  not  written  it  ?  Have  I  not  several  times 
pondered  on  it  ?  What  has  so  often  suggested 
these  frightful  images? 

This  mysterious,  this  impenetrable  silence 
it  is,  that  astounds  and  perplexes  me.  This 
evident  desire,  which  her  conduct  betrayed, 
to  be  not  sought  after  by  me,  and  this  depar- 
ture in  company  with  Sedley ;  the  man  whom 
so  long  a  devotion,  so  many  services  had  not 
induced  her  to  suffer  his  visits.  To  sever  her- 
self thus  abruptly  and  forever  from  7ne,  to 
whom  she  had  given  all  her  tenderness,  with 
whom  she  had  divided  all  her  cares,  during 
years ;  to  whom  the  marriage  promise  had  been 
solemnly  pledged,  and  trust  herself,  on  some 
long  and  incomprehensible  journey  with  one, 
whom  she  had  thought  it  her  duty  to  shun ;  to 
exclude,  on  all  occasions,  from  her  company ; 
is  beyond  my  comprehension. 

But  I  am  tired  of  the  pen  already ;  of  my- 
self; of  the  world. 

"Sf    'Sfs     •7(r    TJ^    T^    •Jjc    ifc    yfr    •Jjc    Tfr    Tfr    "Jfr    vjr     vfr      ^     ^     "jjc 


8  CLARA  HOWARD. 

Ah,  Clara !  can  so  groundless  a  punctilio 
govern  thee  ?  The  settled  gloom  of  thy  aspect ; 
thy  agitation,  when  too  tenderly  urged  by  me ; 
thy  tears,  that,  in  spite  of  heroic  resolutions, 
will  sometimes  find  way,  prove  thy  heart  to  be 
still  mine. 

But  I  will  urge  thee,  I  will  distress  thee  no 
more.  Thy  last  words  have  put  an  end  to  my 
importunity.  Can  I  ever  forget  them,  or  the 
looks  and  gestures  with  which  they  were 
spoken? 

"  I  never  will  be  yours  I  Have  I  not  heard 
all  your  pleas ;  all  your  reasonings  ?  And  am 
I  not  now  furnished  with  all  the  means  of  a 
right  judgment.  I  have  listened  to  you  twenty 
times  upon  this  topic,  and  always  patiently. 
Now  listen  to  me. 

"  I  never  will  be  yours,  while  Mary's  con- 
dition is  unknown.  I  never  will  be  yours  while 
she  is  single ;  unmarried  ta  another  and  un- 
happy. I  will  have  no  intercourse  with  you. 
I  will  not  grant  you  even  my  esteem,  unless 
you  search  for  her ;  find  her  ;  and  oblige  her 
to  accept  your  vows. 

"  There  is  now  no  obstacle  on  account  of 
fortune.    /  have  enough  for  several,  and  will 


CLARA  KOWARB.  t 

give  you  half.  All  that  my  parents  have,  and 
you  know  they  are  rich,  they  will  either  divide 
between  you  and  me,  or  will  give  entirely  to 
me.  In  either  case,  competence,  and  even 
abundance  shall  be  hers  and  yours." 

'Tis  nine  months  since  I  first  entered  this 
house  :  not  on  the  footing  of  a  stranger  or  a 
guest ;  but  of  a  child.  Yet  my  claims  upon  my 
revered  friend  are  not  filial.  He  loves  me, 
because  all  the  virtues  I  possess  are  of  his  own 
planting  and  rearing.  He  that  was  once  the 
pupil  has  now  become  the  son. 

How  painful  and  how  sweet  is  the  review 
of  the  past  year.  How  benign  were  the  aus- 
pices under  which  I  entered  this  house.  Com- 
mended to  the  confidence  and  love  of  their 
daughter,  treated  with  complacency,  at  first ; 
then  with  confidence  by  that  daughter ;  and, 
finally,  honoured  with  her  love.  And  yet,  a 
single  conversation ;  the  mention  of  one  un- 
happy name,  has  reversed  totally  my  condition. 
I  am  still  beloved  by  Clara  j  but  that  passion 
produces  nothing  but  her  miser}*  and  mine, 
A  2 


10  CLARA  HOWARD. 

1  must  go,  she  tells  me ;  and  duty  tells  me 
that  I  must  go  in  search  of  the  fugitive.  I  will 
not  rest  till  I  have  ascertained  her  destiny.  Yet 
I  can  forbode  nothing  but  evil.  The  truth, 
whatever  it  be,  will  avail  me  nothing. 

I  set  out  to-morrow ;  meanwhile  Clara  shall 
have  this  scribble :  perhaps,  she  will  not  spurn 
it.  Wilt  thou,  Clara  ?  Thou  once  lovedst  me : 
perhaps,  dost  love  me  still;  Yet  of  that  I  must 
entertain  some  doubts.  I  part  with  thee  to- 
morrow, perhaps,  forever.  This  I  will  put  into 
thy  hands  at  parting. 


CLARA  HOWARD. 


LETTER  II. 


TO  CLARA  HOWARD. 

Hatfield,  March  20. 

You  knew  my  intention  to  stop,  a  few 
days,  at  this  place,  to  see  my  sisters  and  my  old 
friend.  I  promised  to  write  to  you,  and  inform 
you  of  my  welfare.  I  gave  the  promise  with 
coldness  and  reluctance,  because  I  predicted 
that  no  benefit  would  flow  to  either  from  our 
correspondence.  Will  you  believe  that  I  was 
a  little  sullen  at  our  parting ;  that  your  seeming 
cheerfulness  was  construed  by  my  perverse 
heart,  into  something  very  odious  ?  The  words 
inhuman  and  insensible  girl  rose  to  my  lips,  and 
had  like  to  have  been  uttered  aloud. 

I  did  not  reflect,  that,  since  you  have  re- 
solved to  pursue  a  certain  path,  my  regard  for 


12  CLARA  HOWARD. 

you,  Ifunmixedwith  selfishness,  should  prompt 
me  to  wish,  that  you  may  encounter  as  few 
asperities  as  possible,  and  to  rejoice  at  the 
easiness  of  a  sacrifice,  which,  whether  difficult 
or  easy,  must  be  made. 

I  had  not  left  you  a  day,  before  my  incon- 
stant disposition  restored  me  to  my  virtuous 
feelings.  I  repented  of  the  coldness  with  which 
I  had  consented  to  your  scheme  of  correspon- 
dence, and  tormented  myself  with  imagining 
those  pangs  which  my  injustice  must  have 
given  you.  I  determined  to  repair  my  fault 
as  quickly  as  possible  ;  to  write  to  you  often, 
and  in  the  strain  worthy  of  one  who  can  enter 
into  your  feelings,  and  estimate,  at  its  true 
value,  the  motive  which  governs  your  actions. 

I  have,  indeed,  new  and  more  urgent  mo- 
tives for  writing.  I  arrived,  at  this  hospitable 
mansion,  late  in  the  evening,  I  have  retired, 
for  the  first  time,  to  my  chamber,  and  have 
instantly  taken  up  my  pen.  The  nature  of  the 
tidings  I  send,  will  justify  my  haste.  I  will 
relate  what  has  happened,  without  further  pre- 
face. 

I  approached  my  friend's  door,  and  lifted 
the  latch  without  giving  any  signal  of  my  ap- 


CLARA  HOWARD.  13 

proach.  I  found  the  old  gentleman,  seated  with 
his  pipe,  near  the  fire,  and  looking  placidly  on 
the  two  girls,  who  were  busy  at  draughts,  for 
which  they  had  made  squares  on  the  pine  table, 
with  chalk,  and  employed  yellow  and  red  grains 
of  corn  in  place  oi  pazuns. 

They  started  at  my  entrance,  and,  seeing 
who  it  was,  threw  themselves  into  my  arms^ 
in  a  transport  of  surprise  and  delight.  After 
the  first  raptures  of  our  meeting  had  passed, 
Mr.  Hickman  said  to  me  ;  Well,  my  boy,  thou 
hast  come  just  in  time.  Godfry  Cartwright 
has  just  carried  away  letters  for  thee.  He  goes 
to  town  to-morrow,  and  I  gave  him  a  pacquet 
that  has  lain  here  for  some  time,  to  put  into 
the  office  for  thee. 

A  pacquet?  Forme?  From  whom? 

When  thou  knowestthe  truth,  thou  wilt  be 
apt  to  blame  us  a  little,  for  our  negligence ;  but 
I  will  tell  thee  the  whole  affair,  and  thou  shalt 
judge  how  far  we  are  culpable.  A  week  ago, 
I  was  searching  the  drawers  in  my  cherry-tree 
desk,  for  the  copy  of  a  bond  which  old  Duck- 
worth had  placed  in  my  hands  for  safe-keeping, 
when  I  lighted  on  a  bulky  pacquet,  sealed  up, 
and  inscribed  with  thy  name.     I  thought  it 


14  CLARA  HOWARD. 

strange,  that"  a  paper  of  that  kind  should  be 
found  in  my  possession,  and  looked  at  it  again 
and  again  before  I  could  comprehend  the  mys- 
tery. At  last  I  noticed,  in  the  corner,  the  words 
"  By  Mr.  Cartwright."  Cartwright,  thou 
knowest  is  the  man  we  employ  to  take  and 
bring  letters  to  and  from  the  city.  Hence,  I 
supposed  it  to  be  a  pacquet  brought  by  him  on 
some  occasion,  and  left  here  for  thee ;  but  by 
whom  it  was  received,  when  it  was  brought, 
and  how  it  should  chance  to  repose  in  this 
drawer,  I  could  not  guess.  I  mentioned  the 
affair  to  my  sister,  but  she  had  no  knowledge 
of  the  matter.  At  length,  after  examining  the 
pacquet  and  comparing  circumstances,  she 
gradually  recollected  its  history. 

Alack-a-day!  cried  she,  I  do  remember 
something  of  it  now.  Cartwright  brought  it 
here,  just  the  same  evening  of  the  very  day 
that  poor  Edward  left  here  and  went  to  town. 
I  remember  I  put  it  into  that  drawer^  suppos- 
ing that  to  be  as  good  a  place  as  any  to  keep  it 
safe  in,  till  we  should  hear  from  the  lad,  and 
so  have  some  inkling  whereabouts  to  send  it 
to  him ;  but,  as  I  am  a  living  soul,  I  forgot  all 
about  it  from  that  day  to  this. 


CLARA  HOWARD.  15 

Such  is  the  history  of  your  pacquet,  which, 
you  see,  was  mislaid  through  accident  and  my 
sister's  bad  memory. 

This  pacquet  instantly  connected  itself,  in 
my  fancy,  with  the  destiny  of  poor  Mar}\  It 
came  hither  nearly  at  the  time  of  her  flight 
from  Abingdon.  It,  no  doubt,  came  from 
her,  and  contained  information  of  unspeakable 
moment  to  our  mutual  happiness.  When  I 
reflected  on  the  consequences  of  this  negli- 
gence, I  could  scarcely  re  strain  my  impatience. 
I  eagerly  inquired  for  the  pacquet. 

Not  an  half-hour  ago,  said  Hickman,  I 
delivered  it  to  Cartwright,  with  directions  to 
put  it  into  the  post-ofiice  for  New- York.  He 
sets  out  early  in  the  morning,  so  that  thou  wilt 
receive  it  on  thy  return  to  New- York. 

Cartwright  lives  five  miles  from  this  house. 
The  least  delay  was  intolerable ;  and,  my  horse 
not  being  yet  unsaddled,  I  mounted  him  im- 
mediately, and  set  out,  in  spite  of  expostula- 
tion and  intreaty.  The  night  was  remarkably 
gloomy  and  tempestuous,  and  I  was  already 
thoroughly  fatigued  j  but  these  considerations 
were  forgotten. 


16  CLARA  HOWARD. 

I  arrived  at  Cartwright's  hovel,  in  less  than 
an  hour,  and  having  gotten  the  pacquet,  I  re- 
turned with  equal  dispatch.  Immediately  after, 
I  retired  to  my  chamber  and  opened  the  pac- 
quet, on  which  I  instantly  recognised  the 
well-known  hand  of  Miss  Wilmot.  I  will  wave 
all  comments,  and  send  you  the  letter. 


TO  EDWARD  HARTLEY. 

Abingdon,  Nov.  11. 

I  NEED  not  tell  you,  my  friend,  what  I 
have  felt,  in  consequence  of  your  silence.  The 
short  note  which  I  received,  a  fortnight  after 
you  had  left  me,  roused  my  curiosity  and  my 
fears,  instead  of  allaying  them.  You  promised 
me  a  longer  account  of  some  mysterious 
changes  that  had  taken  place  in  your  condition. 
This  I  was  to  receive  in  a  few  days.  At  the 
end  of  a  week  I  was  impatient.  The  promised 
letter  did  not  arrive.  Four  weeks  passed  away, 
and  nothing  came  from  you. 

Your  pacquet  has  at  last  put  an  end  to  sus- 
pense :  But  why  did  you  not  send  it  sooner? 


CLARA  HOWARD.  17 

Why  not  send  me  your  story  piece -meal ;  or, 
at  least,  tell  me,  in  half  a  line,  how  you  were 
employed,  and  what  occasioned  your  delay? 
Why  did  you  not  come  yourself?  Edward,  1 
am  displeased;  I  was  going  to  say,  angry  with 
you.  You  have  sported  with  my  feelings.  I 
ought  to  lay  down  my  pen  while  I  am  in  this 
humour.  The  pangs  your  negligence  has  given 
me,  have  not  yet  been  soothed  to  rest,  and 
when  I  find  that  so  much  unhappiness  has  been 
given  through  mere  heedlessness,  I  can  scarcely 
keep  my  patience. 

I  was  sitting  on  a  bench  in  the  garden,  when 
a  country  lad  entered  the  enclosure.  As  soon 
as  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  him,  and  observed 
that  his  attention  was  fixed  upon  me,  and  his 
right  hand  already  in  his  pocket,  my  heart  whis- 
pered that  this  was  the  bearer  of  tidings  from 
you.  I  attempted  to  rise  and  meet  him,  but 
my  knees  trembled  so  much,  that  I  was  obliged 
to  give  up  my  design.  He  drew  forth  his  pac- 
quet  and  threw  it  into  my  lap,  answering,  at  the 
same  time,  my  inquiries,  respecting  you,  by 
telling  me  that  you  were  well,  and  that  you 
had  been  busy,  for  a  long  time,  night  and  day, 
in  writing  that  there  letter  to  me.  He  had  stopt 


18  CLARA  HOWARD. 

a  moment  to  give  it,  and  could  not  stay,  but 
merely  to  receive  three  lines  from  me,  inform- 
ing you  of  my  health. 

You  do  not  deserve  the  favour.  Besides, 
my  fingers  partake  the  flutteringsof  myheart. 
A  tumult  of  joy  and  vexation,  overpowers  me. 
But,  though  you  do  not  merit  it,  you  shall 
have  a  few  lines.  I'his  paper  was  spread  upon 
my  lap,  and  I  had  taken  the  pen  to  write  to  my 
aunt  Bowles,  but  I  will  devote  it  to  you,  though 
my  tremors,  you  see,  will  scarcely  permit  me 
to  write  legibly. 

Your  messenger  chides  my  lingering ;  and 
I  will  let  him  go  with  nothing  but  a  verbal 
message,  for  on  second  thoughts,  I  will  defer 
writing  till  I  have  read  your  long  letter. 

Nov.  15. 
Yes ;  the  narrative  of  Morton  is  true.  The 
simple  recital  which  you  give,  leaves  me  no 
doubt.  The  money  is  his,  and  shall  be  restored 
the  moment  he  demands  it.  For  what  I  have 
spent,  I  must  a  little  while  be  his  debtor.  I'his 
he  must  consent  to  lose,  for  I  never  can  repay 
it.  Indeed,  it  is  not  much.  Since  my  change 
of  fortune,  I  have  not  been  extravagant.    An 


CLARA  HOWARD.  19 

hundred  dollars  is  the  most  that  I  have  laid 
out,  and  some  of  this  has  been  in  furniture 
which  I  shall  resign  to  him. 

Be  under  no  concern,  my  friend,  on  my 
account.  Think  not  how  I  shall  endure  the 
evils  of  my  former  condition,  for  I  never  shall 
return  to  it.  Thy  Mary  is  hastening  to  the 
grave,  with  a  very  quick  pace.  That  is  her  only 
refuge  from  humiliation  and  calamity,  and  to 
that  she  looks  forward  with  more  confidence 
than  ever. 

I  was  not  fashioned  of  stubborn  materials. 
Poverty,  contempt,  and  labour,  are  a  burden 
too  great  for  me.  I  know,  that  for  these  only, 
ami  reserved,  and  this  interval  of  better  pros- 
pects was  no  comfort  to  me.  I  always  told  you 
my  brother  had  no  just  claim  to  this  money, 
and  that  the  rightful  claimant  would  sooner  or 
later  appear.  You  were  more  sanguine,  and 
were  willing  to  incur,  even  on  grounds  so  im- 
perfect, the  irrevocable  obligations  of  marri- 
age. See  into  what  a  gulf  your  rashness  would 
have  hurried  you ,  and  rej  oice  that  my  obstinacy 
insisted  on  a  delay  of  half  a  year. 

You  know  my  motives  for  accepting,  and 
on  what  conditions  I  accepted  your  proifered 


20  CLARA  HOWARD. 

vows.  '  I  have  never  concealed  from  you  my 
love.   What  my  penetration  easily  perceived, 
your  candour  never  strove  to  conceal.    Your 
indifference,  your  freedom  from  every  thing 
like  passion,  was  not  only  to  be  seen  in  your 
conduct,  but  was  avowed  by  your  lips.   I  was 
not  so  base  as  to  accept  your  hand,  without 
your  lieart.  You  talked  of  gratitude,  and  duty, 
and  perfect  esteem.  I  obtained,  you  told  me, 
your  entire  reverence,  and  there  was  no  female 
in  the  world  whom  you  loved  so  much.  It  was 
true  that  you  did  not  love  me^  but  you  preferred 
me  to  all  other  women.     Union  with  me  was 
your  supreme  desire.    Your  reason  discerned 
and  adored  my  merits,  and  the  concurrence  of 
the  heart  could  not  but  follow. 

Fondly  devoted  to  you  as  I  was,  and  urged 
as  these  arguments  were,  with  pathetic  elo- 
quence, I  could  not  be  deceived  for  more  than 
a  moment.  My  heart  was  filled  with  contra- 
dictors emotions.  I  secretly  upbraided  you  for 
obduracy  in  withholding  your  love,  while  I, 
at  the  same  time,  admired  and  loved  you  the 
more  for  your  generosity.  Your  conduct  ren- 
dered the  sacrifice  of  my  happiness  to  yours 
the  more  difficult,  while  it  increased  the  ncces- 


CLARA  HOWARD.  21 

sity,  and  inforced  the  justice  of  that  sacrifice. 
I  could  not  discover  the  probability,  that  mar- 
riage would  give  birth  to  that  love  which  pre- 
vious tenderness  and  kindness  had  been  unable 
to  produce.  I  doubted  not  your  fidelity,  and 
that  the  consciousness  of  conferring  happiness 
would  secure  your  contentment ;  but  I  felt  that 
this  was  insufficient  for  my  pride,  if  not  for 
my  love. 

I  sought  your  happiness.  To  be  the  author 
of  it  was  the  object  of  inexpressible  longings. 
To  be  happy  without  you  was  impossible,  but 
the  misery  of  loneliness,  however  great,  was 
less  than  that  of  being  the  spectator  of  your 
misery,  or  even  that  of  defrauding  you  of  the 
felicity,  attending  marriage  with  a  woman 
whom  you  could  truly  love.  Meanwhile,  our 
mutual  poverty  was  itself  an  insurmountable 
bar  to  marriage. 

My  brother's  death  put  me  in  seeming  pos- 
session of  competence.  Circumstances  were 
now  somewhat  changed.  If  no  claimant  ap- 
peared, I  should  be  able,  by  giving  myself  to 
you,  to  bestow  upon  the  object  of  my  love  that 
good,  the  want  of  which  nothing  can  competit»^ 
B  2 


22  CLARA  HOWARD. 

sate.  There  were  no  other  means  of  rescuing 
your  sisters  and  yourself  from  indigence  and 
dependence.  What  I  was  willing  to  share  with 
you,  you  would  not  share  Avith  me  on  any 
terms  but  those  of  wedlock. 

Too  well  did  I  see  on  what  weak  founda- 
tions was  built  this  scheme  of  happiness.  This 
property  was  never  gained  by  my  brother's  own 
industry,  and  how  could  I  apply  to  my  own  use 
what  I  could  not  doubt  belonged  to  another, 
though  that  other  should  never  appear  to  claim 
it  at  my  hands. 

My  reluctance  was  partly  subdued  by  your 
urgency.  I  consented,  waveringly,  and  with  a 
thousand  misgivings,  to  be  yours  at  the  end  of 
six  months,  if  no  one  should  appear,  meantime, 
to  make  out  a  good  title  to  this  money.    I 
listened  to  your  arguments  and  suppositions, 
by  which  you  would  fain   account  for  my 
brother's  acquisition  of  so  large  a  sum  consist- 
ently with  honesty,  and  for  his  silence  as  to  his 
possession  of  it.  I  was  willing  to  be  convinced, 
and  consented  to  sacrifice  my  peace  by  marry- 
ing the  man  I  loved,  because  this  marriage 
would  secure  to  him  the  competence,  which  I 
could  not  enjoy  alone. 


CLARA  HOWARD.  23 

This  end  cannot  now  be  effected.  New 
reasons  have  sprung  up  for  foregoing  your 
affection,  even  had  Morton  perished  at  sea.  A 
friend  has  returned  to  you,  who  is  far  more 
able  to  relieve  your  poverty  than  I  should  be. 
It  is  easy  to  see  on  what  conditions  this  relief 
is  intended  to  be  given.  He  has  a  daughter, 
whom  he  deems  worthy  of  his  adopted  son.  He 
knows  your  merit,  and  cannot  fail  of  perceiving 
that  it  places  you  on  a  level  with  the  most  lovely 
and  accomplished  of  human  beings. 

I  see  how  it  is.  This  Clara  will  be  yours. 
That  intelligence,  thatmien,  that  gracefulness, 
which  rustic  obscurity  cannot  hide,  which  the 
garb  of  a  clown  could  never  disguise,  accom- 
panied with  the  ardent  commendations  of  her 
father,  will  fascinate  her  in  a  moment.  I  cannot 
hesitate  what  to  wish,  or  how  to  act.  That  pas- 
sion which  a  form,  homely  and  uncouth  like 
mine,  tarnished  and  withered  by  drudgery  and 
sorrow,  and  by  comparative  old  age,  for  I  am 
nine  years  older  than  you ;  which  a  mind,  void 
of  education,  and  the  refinements  of  learned 
and  polished  intercourse  was  incapable  of  wak- 
ening, cannot  fail  to  be  excited  by  the  youth 
and  beauty,  the  varied  accomplishments  and 


24  CLARA  HOWARD. 

ineffable  graces  of  this  stranger.  She  will  offer 
you  happiness,  and  wealth,  and  honour,  and 
you  will  accept  them  at  her  hands. 

As  for  me,  I  cannot  be  yours,  because  I  am 
not  my  own.  My  resolution  to  be  severed  from 
you  is  unalterable  ;  but  this  is  not  necessary  to 
insure  our  separation.  It  cannot  take  place, 
even  if  all  my  wishes  were  in  favour  of  it. 
Long  before  the  expiration  of  the  half  year,  I 
shall  be  removed  beyond  your  reach.  This  is 
not  the  illusion  of  despair.  I  feel  in  my  deepest 
vitals,  the  progress  of  death.  Nature  languishes 
within  me,  and  every  hour  accelerates  my 
decay. 

My  friend,  thou  must  not  parley  with  me  ; 
thou  must  not  afflict  me  with  arguments  or  in- 
treaties,  by  letters  or  visits.  I  must  see  thee, 
and  hear  from  thee  no  more  :  but  I  know  thy 
character  too  well  to  expect  this  from  thee. 
As  soon  asthoureceivest  this  letter,  thou  wilt 
hasten  hither,  and  endeavour  to  shake  my  pur- 
pose. 

I  am  not  doubtful  of  my  own  constancy, 
but  I  would  save  myself  and  thee  from  a  trial 
)Lhat  will  answer  no  end.  I  shall  leave  this  place 
early  to-morrow.    Whither  I  am  going  must 


CLARA  HOWARD.  25 

never  be  told  to  thee.  Thy  pursuit  and  thy 
inquiries  will  be  incessant  and  anxious,  but  the 
measures  I  have  taken  for  eluding  thy  search, 
will  defeat  all  thy  efforts.  I  know  that  these 
assurances  will  not  dissuade  thee  from  making 
them,  and  I  sorrow  to  reflect  on  the  labours 
and  anxieties  to  which  thou  v/ilt  subject  thy- 
self for  my  sake  ;  but  I  shall  derive  consolation 
from  the  belief,  that  my  retreat  will  never  be 
discovered, 

I  enclose  an  order  on  the  bank  for  the  mo- 
ney that  remains  in  it,  drawn  in  favour  of 
Morton,  and  an  assignment  to  him  of  the  few 
tables  and  chairs  that  furnish  my  lodgings  here. 
These  thou  wilt  faithfully  deliver  into  his 
hands.  I  likewise  return  you  your  papers  and 
letter^. 

Andnow....  Edward. ...best  and  most  belov- 
ed of  men  !....and  is  it  come  to  this  t  Must  I 
bid  thee  farewel  forever  ? 

Do  not,  I  beseech  thee,  think  hardly  of  me 
for  what  I  have  done.  Nothing  but  a  sense  of 
duty,  nothing  but  a  supreme  regard  to  thy  hap- 
piness, could  suggest  my  design.  I  cannot 
faulter  in  the  execution,  since  I  could  not 


26  CLARA  HOWARD. 

waver  in  the  sense  of  my  duty.  I  am  ashamed 
of  my  weakness,  that  hinders  me  from  pro- 
nouncing my  last  farewel, 

INIake  haste  to  forget  the  unhappy  Mary  j 
make  haste  to  the  feet  of  your  new  friend,  and 
to  secure  that  felicity  which  an  untoward  fate 
denied  me  the  power  of  bestowing. 

My  friend,  my  benefactor,  farewel.' 

Mary. 


CLARA  HOWARD. 


LETTER  III. 


TO  CLARA  HOWARD. 

Philadelphia,  March  24. 

I  WRITE  to  you  in  a  mood  not  very  well 
suited  to  the  business.  I  am  wear)^  and  impa- 
tient. The  company  which  surrounds  me  is 
alien  to  my  temper  and  my  habits.  I  want  to 
shut  out  the  tokens  of  their  existence ;  to 
forget  where  I  am,  and  restore  myself  to  those 
rapturous  scenes  and  that  blissful  period  which 
preceded  my  last  inauspicious  meeting  with 
Morton. 

I  write  to  you,  and  yet  I  have  nothing  to 
say  that  will  please  you.  My  heart  overflows 
with  bitterness.  I  would  pour  it  out  upon  you, 
and  yet  my  equity  will  only  add  new  keenness 
to  my  compunction,  when  I  come  to  review 
what  I  have  written.  I  am  disposed  to  com- 


^8  CLARA  HOWARD. 

plain.  I  want  an  object  to  whom  to  impute  my 
disasters,  and  to  gratify  my  malice  by  upbraid- 
ing. There  is  a  kind  of  satisfaction  in  revenge 
that  I  want  to  taste.  I  want  to  shift  my  anxieties 
from  my  own  shoulders  to  those  of  another, 
who  deserves  the  burden  more  than  I. 

Your  decision  has  made  me  unhappy.  I 
believe  your  decision  absurd,  yet  I  know  your 
motives  are  disinterested  and  heroic.  I  know 
the  misery  which  adherence  to  your  scheme 
costs  you.  It  is  only  less  than  my  own.  Why 
then  should  I  aggravate  that  misery  ?  It  is  the 
system  of  nature  that  deserves  my  hatred  and 
my  curses  :  that  system  which  makes  our  very 
virtues  instrumental  to  our  miserj-. 

But  chiefly  my  own  folly  have  I  to  deplore  : 
that  folly  which  made  me  intrust  to  you  the 
story  of  Miss  Wilmot,  before  the  bonds  had 
been  formed  which  no  after-repentance  could 
break.  I  ought  to  have  forgotten  her  existence. 
I  ought  to  have  claimed  your  love  and  your 
hand.  You  would  have  bestowed  them  upon 
me,  and  my  happiness  would  have  been  placed 
beyond  the  reach  of  caprice. 

What  has  wrought  this  change  in  my 
thoughts  ?  I  set  out  from  Hatfield  with  an 


CLARA  HOWARD.  29 

heart  glowing  with  zeal  for  the  poor  Mary.  I 
burnt  with  impatience  to  throw  myself  at  her 
feet,  and  tender  her  my  vows.  This  zeal  time 
has  extinguished.  I  call  to  mind  the  perfections 
of  another.  I  compare  them  with  those  of  the 
fugitive.  My  soul  droops  at  the  comparison, 
and  my  tongue  would  find  it  impossible  to  utter 
the  vows,  which  my  untoward  fate  may  exact 
from  me. 

Yet  there  is  no  alternative.  I  must  finish 
the  course  that  I  have  begun.  I  must  conjure 
up  impetuosity  and  zeal  in  this  new  cause.  I 
must  act  and  speak  with  the  earnestness  of  sin- 
cerity and  the  pathos  of  hope.  Otherwise  I 
shall  betray  my  cause  and  violate  my  duty. 
Alas  I  it  is  vain  to  deny  it,  my  powers  are  not 
equal  to  this  task. 

I  have  inquired  at  the  house  where  Mrs. 
Vallentine  formerly  lived.  A  new  family  are 
there,  and  no  intelligence  of  the  former  tenant 
crriibe  gained  from  them.  Thisladyhasfriends, 
nodmibt,  in  the  cit}^ ;  but  I  know  them  not.  It 
is  chance  alone  that  can  give  me  their  company. 

My  efforts  are  languid  and  my  prospects 
dim.  I  shall  stay  here  for  as  short  a  time  as 


so  CLARA  HOWARD. 

possible,  and  then  proceed  to  Virginia.  I  will 
not  rest  till  I  have  restored  to  Mary  her  own. 
This  money  shall  be  faithfully  delivered.  To 
add  my  heart  to  the  gift  is  impossible.  With 
less  than  my  affections  she  will  never  be  satis- 
fied, and  they  are  no  longer  mine  to  bestow. 

Having  performed  this  duty,  what  will  re- 
main for  me.  My  future  destiny  it  will  be 
your  province  to  prescribe.  I  shall  cease,  how- 
ever, to  reason  with  you,  or  to  persuade.  De- 
cide agreeably  to  your  own  conceptions  of 
right,  and  secure  to  yourself  happiness,  even 
by  allotting  misery,  banishment,  or  death,  to 

E.  II. 


I 


CLARA  HOWARD, 


LETTER  IV. 


TO  E.  HARTLEY. 


New- York,  March  26. 

If  I  thought  the  temper  which  dictated 
your  last  letter  would  continue  beyond  the  hour 
or  the  night,  I  should  indeed  be  unhappy.  My 
life  has  known  much  sorrow,  but  the  sharpest 
pangs  will  be  those  arising  from  the  sense  of 
your  imworthiness. 

In  my  eyes  marriage  is  no  sensual  or  selfish 
bargain.  I  will  never  vow  to  honour  the  man, 
who  deserves  only  my  contempt;  and  my  esteem, 
can  be  secured  only  by  a  just  and  disinterested 
conduct.  Perhaps  esteem  is  not  the  only  requi- 
site to  marriage.  Of  that  I  am  not  certain ;  but 
i  know  that  it  is  an  indispensible  requisite  to 
love.  I  cannot  love  any  thing  in  you  but  ex- 
cellence.     Infatuation  will  render  you  hateful 


32  CLARA  HOWARD. 

or  pitiable  in  my  eyes.  I  shall  hasten  to  forget 
you,  and  for  that  end  shall  estrange  myself 
from  your  society,  and  drop  your  correspond- 
ence. 

You  know  what  it  is  that  reason  prescribes 
to  you  with  regard  to  Miss  Wilmot.  If  you 
cannot  ardently  and  sincerely  seek  her  pre- 
sence, and  find  in  the  happiness  which  she  will 
derive  from  union  with  you,  sufficient  motives 
to  make  you  zealously  solicit  that  union,  you 
are  unworthy  not  merely  of  my  love,  but  of 
my  esteem.  Henceforth  I  will  know  you  not. 

Let  me  not  have  reason  to  charge  you  with 
hypocrisy,  or  to  consider  your  love  for  me  as 
the  mere  child  of  sensuality  and  selfishness. 
You  have  often  told  me  that  you  desire  my 
happiness  above  all  things.  That  you  love  me 
for  my  own  sake.  Your  sincerity  and  rectitude 
are  now  put  to  the  test.  Do  not  belie  your 
professions,  by  a  blind  and  unjust  decision. 
Allow  me  to  judge  in  what  it  is  that  my  hap- 
piness consists,  and  prove  your  attachment  to 
me  by  promoting  my  happiness. 

Misguided  friend  !  What  is  it  you  want? 
To  griin  your  end  by  exciting  my  pity  ?  Sup- 
pose the  end  should  be  thus  accomplished  ; 


CLARA  HOWARD.  35 

suppose  I  should  become  your  wife  merely  to 
save  your  life,  to  prevent  hazards  and  tempta- 
tions to  which  my  rejection  might  expose  you- 
Mournful,  indeed,  full  of  anguish  and  of  tears, 
would  be  the  day  which  should  make  me  your 
bride.  My  act  would  be  a  mere  submission  to  hu- 
miliating and  painful  necessity.  I  should  look 
to  reap  from  such  an  alliance,  nothing  but  re- 
pinings  and  sorrow.  By  soliciting  my  hand, 
by  consenting  to  ratify  a  contract  made  on  such 
principles,  you  would  irretrievably  forfeit  my 
esteem.  My  condition  would  be  the  most  dis- 
astrous that  can  betide  a  human  being.  I 
should  be  bound,  beyond  the  power  of  loosen- 
ing my  bonds,  to  one  whom  I  despised, 

I  am,  indeed,  in  no  danger  of  acting  upon 
these  principles.  I  shall  never  so  little  consult 
my  own  dignity  and  yours,  as  to  accept  your 
hand  through  compassion,  I  am  not  unac- 
quainted with  the  schemes  which  your  foolish 
despondency  has  suggested  to  you.  I  know 
very  well  what  alternatives  you  have  some- 
times resolved  to  offer  me  ;  of  compliance  with 
your  wishes,  or  of  banishing  you  to  the  desert, 
and  dissolving  that  connection  between  my 
father  and  you,  which  is  so  advantageous  to 


54  CLARA  HOWARD. 

yourself  and  your  sisters.  Fie  upon  you ! 
Even  to  have  entertained  such  thoughts  fixes 
41  stain  upon  your  character  not  easily  effaced. 
Nothing  but  the  hope  that  the  illusion  is  tran- 
sitory, and  that  sober  reflection  will,  in  a  short 
time,  relieve  you  from  the  yoke  of  such  cow- 
ardly and  ignoble  designs,  prevents  this  from 
being  the  last  token  of  friendship  you  will  ever 
receive  from 

C.  H. 


I 


CLARA  HOWARD, 


LETTER  V. 


TO  MISS  HOWARD. 

Philadelphia,  March  28. 

Clara,  thou  hast  conquered  me,  I  see 
the  folly  of  my  last  letter,  and  deplore  it.  It, 
indeed,  merited  the  indignation  and  the  scorn 
which  it  has  received.  Never  shall  you  again 
be  grieved  and  provoked  by  the  like  folly.  I 
am  now  master  of  my  actions  and  my  thoughts, 
and  will  steadily  direct  them  to  a  single  pur- 
pose, the  pursuit  of  the  poor  Mary,  and  the 
promotion  of  her  happiness. 

How  inconsistent  and  capricious  is  man. 
To-day,  his  resolution  and  motives  are  as  ad- 
verse to  those  of  yesterday,  as  those  of  one 
man,  can  be,  at  any  tinle  and  in  any  situation,  to 
those  of  another.  Yesterday!  Heaven  preserve 
me  from  a  repetition  of  the  same  thoughts  I 


36  CLARA  HOWARD. 

I  shudder  on  looking  back  upon  the  gulf  on  the 
brink  of  which  I  was  tottering.  How  could  I 
so  utterly  forget  m}'  own  interest ;  the  regard 
due  to  the  woman  who  truly  loves  me ;  to  my 
sisters  and  my  noble  friend  ? 

But  the  humiliation  is  now  past.  I  think 
it  is  :  I  am  sure  it  is.  I  am  serene,  resolute, 
and  happy.  The  remorse  my  errors  have  pro- 
duced is  now  at  an  end.  Better  thoughts, 
resolutions  worthy  of  your  pupil  and  your  friend 
have  succeeded.  Not  that  my  past  feelings 
have  been,  perhaps,  quite  as  culpable  ^s  you 
describe  them.  My  repinings  were  drawn  from 
fallacious  sources,  but  they  were  not  wholly 
selfish.  I  imagined  you  loved  me  j  that  my 
alliance  with  another,  however  sanctioned  by 
your  judgment,  would  produce  some  regret. 
Believing  your  judgment  misinformed ;  believ- 
ing these  regrets  to  be  needless,  I  was  not 
willing  to  create  them.  I  need  not  say  that; 
this  was  all  my  reluctance.  That  would  be 
false ;  but,  as  they  partly  originated  hence,  my 
feelings  were  not  wholly  selfish,  and  if  I  may 
judge  of  my  own  emoti(Jns,  surely  you  wrong 
me  in  calling  my  passion  by  the  odious  name 
of  sensual. 


I 


CLARA  HOWARD.  Z7 

But  these  things  are  past.  You  have  not 
done  me  justice ;  and  in  return,  I  have  imputed 
to  you,  feelings  of  which  you  knew  nothing. 
Henceforth,  my  conduct  shall  convince  you 
that  I  cannot  stoop  to  solicit  that  boon  from 
your  pity,  which  is  refused  by  your  love.  Con- 
jugal claims  and  enjoyments  are  mutual.  The 
happiness  received  is  always  proportioned  to 
that  conferred.  A  wretch,  worthy  of  eternal 
abhorrence,  must  he  be,  and  endowed  with 
tyger-like  ferocity,  who  seeks  and  is  contented 
with  the  person,  while  the  heart  is  averse  or 
indifferent.  Such  an  one,  believe  me,  Clara, 
am  not  I. 

On  Tuesday,  I  expect  to  dispatch  all  my 
concerns  in  this  city,  and  to  proceed  south- 
ward. 

Adieu. 
E.  H. 


CLARA  HOWARD. 


LETTER  VI. 


TO  E.  HARTLEY 


New-York,  April  1. 

There  is  an  obscurity  in  your  letter, 
my  friend,  that  I  cannot  dispel.  The  first  part 
afforded  me  much  pleasure,  but  the  sequel 
disappointed  me.  You  seem  to  have  strangely 
misconstrued  my  meaning.  Whether  this 
misconstruction  be  real  or  pretended,  it  does 
not  become  me  to  enter  into  any  explanation. 
if  it  be  real,  it  affords  a  proof  of  a  narrow  and 
ungenerous  heart,  an  heart  incapable  of  per- 
ceiving the  possibility  of  sacrificing  my  own 
personal  gratification  to  that  of  another,  and 
of  deriving,  from  that  ver}^  sacrifice,  a  purer 
and  more  lasting  felicity.  It  shews  you  unable 
to  comprehend  that  the  welfare  of  another  may 
demandself-denial  from  us,  and  that  in  bestow- 


40  CLARA  HOWARD. 

ing  benefits  on  others,  there  is  a  purer  delight 
than  in  gratifications  merely  selfish  and  exclu- 
sive. 

You  question  my  love,  because  I  exhort 
you  to  do  your  duty,  and  to  make  another 
happy  that  is  worthier  than  I.  Why  am  I 
anxious  for  that  other  and  for  you  ?  Why  should 
I  rejoice  in  your  integrity,  and  mourn  for  your 
degradation?  Why  should  I  harbour  such 
glowing  images  of  the  bliss  which  your  Mary 
should  derive  from  union  with  you  ?  Would 
not  my  indifference  and  negligence  on  these 
heads,  would  not  my  ardour  to  appropriate 
your  affections  to  myself, prove  me  to  be.. .there 
is  no  name  sufficiently  abhorrent  and  contemp- 
tuous for  such  an  heart. 

And  yet,  such  is  the  deportment  you  expect 
from  me !  Any  thing  but  this  will  prove  me  to 
be  indifferent,  or  averse  to  you !  Desist,  I 
beseech  you,  in  time.  If  you  proceed  thus, 
quickly  will  you  lose  what  remains  of  that 
esteem  which  I  once  felt  for  you.  Instead  of 
earnestly  promoting  your  alliance  with  Miss 
Wilmot,  I  shall  anxiously  obstruct  it,  on 
account  of  your  unworthiness. 


CLARA  HOWARD.  41 

If  this  misconstruction  be  pretended  only, 
if  you  mean  to  assail,  by  this  new  expedient, 
my  imaginar)^  weakness  ;  if  you  imagine,  that 
in  order  to  remove  an  unjust  imputation  from 
my  character,  I  will  do  what  will  make  me 
really  culpable ;  if  you  imagine  that  I  shall 
degrade  myself  in  my  own  estimation,  merely 
for  the  purpose  of  raising  myself  in  yours,  you 
have  grossly  deceived  yourself. 

Formerly  you  talked,  with  much  self-com- 
placency, of  the  trials  to  which  I  had  subjected 
my  fortitude,  and  c^tz^o/^^  yourself  with  think- 
ing that  adhering  to  my  new  scheme,  was  pro- 
ductive of  misery.  I  say,  that  you  consoled 
yourself  with  this  refle6cion.  In  your  eyes,  my 
character  was  estimable  in  proportion  to  the 
reluctance  with  which  I  performed  what  was 
just.  Your  devotion  to  me  was  ferv^ent  in  pro- 
portion as  the  performance  of  my  duty  was 
attended  with  anguish  and  suffering  1 

Edward!  are  you,  indeed,  so  sordid  as  to 
reason  in  this  manner?  Are  you  so  blind  as  to 
account  this  the  surest  road  to  my  esteem?  Are 
you  not  ashamed  of  your  infatuation  and  absur- 
dity? 


42  CLARA  HOWARD. 

I  need  not  disguise  or  deny  my  unhappi- 
ness  from  any  pity  to  you,  or  through  the  value 
which  I  set  on  your  esteem.  You  exult  in  pro- 
portion to  my  misery.  You  revere  me  in 
proportion  as  my  sentiments  are  mean  and 
selfish  1  I  am  to  be  upbraided  and  despised,  in 
proportion  to  the  fulness  of  that  enjoyment, 
which,  the  approbation  of  my  conscience,  the 
sense  of  doing  right  myself,  and  of  conferring 
good  on  others,  has  given  me ! 

Let  me  constantly  hear  from  you,  respect- 
ing your  movements,  I  am  in  hopes  that  time 
and  reflection  will  instil  into  you  better  prin- 
ciples. Till  then,  I  shall  not  be  displeased,  if 
your  letters  be  confined  to  a  mere  narrative  of 
your  journey. 

Adieu. 

C.  H. 


( 


CLARA  HOWARD, 


LETTER  VII. 


TO  E.  HARTLEY. 


New-York,  April  5. 

You  were  to  leave  Philadelphia  on  Tues- 
day, you  told  me.  I  imagined  the  interval 
'would  be  engrossed  v^ith  business,  and,  there- 
fore, expected  not  to  hear  from  you,  till  after 
that  day  ;  but  that  day,  and  the  whole  week  is 
past,  and  no  tidings. 

This  silence  does  not  proceed  from  sullen- 
ness.  I  hope,  I  persuade  myself,  it  does  not. 
Whatever  anger  you  have  conceived  against 
me,  let  not  that,  I  intreat  )ou,  make  you  un- 
grateful to  my  father,  cruel  to  your  sisters, 
unjust  to  yourself. 

Letters  have  been  hourly  expected  from 
you,  relative  to  concerns  which  you  had  in 


44  CLARA  HOWARD. 

charge.  Have  you  neglected  them?  Have 
you  betrayed  your  trust  ?  Have  you  suffered  an 
unmanly  dejection  to  unfit  you  for  this  charge  ? 
Have  you  committed  any  rashness  ? 

Heaven  forbid  !  Yet,  what  but  some  fatal 
event  has  occasioned  this  delay?  Perhaps, 
while  I  thus  write  to  you,  you  are.... 

Let  me  not  think  of  it.  I  shiver  with  a 
deadly  cold  at  the  thought.  Thou  art  fiery  and 
impetuous,  my  friend.  Thy  spirit  is  not  curbed 
by  reason.  There  is  no  outrage  on  discretion  ; 
no  crime  against  thyself,  into  which  thy  head- 
long spirit  may  not  hurry  thee. 

Perhaps,  my  last  letter  was  harsh,  unjust. 
My  censures  were  too  bitter.  I  made  not 
suitable  allowances  for  your  youth;  the  force 
of  that  attachment  which  you  own  for  me. 
Knew  I  so  little  of  my  own  nature,  and  the 
illusions  of  passion,  as  to  expect  you  to  act  and 
speak  with  perfect  wisdom. 

Would  to  heaven,  I  had  not  written  that 
letter,  or  that  I  had  sufficiently  considered  its 
contents  before  I  sent  it.  It  was  scribbled 
hastily,  in  a  moment  of  resentment.  Of  that, 
vhich  I  so  acrimoniously  censured  in  you,  I 


CLARA  HOWARD.  43 

was  guilty  myself.  I  ought  to  have  staid  till 
cool  reflection  had  succeeded. 

But,  perhaps,  we  torment  ourselves  need- 
lessly. It  is  said,  that  the  late  storms  have 
overflowed  the  rivers,  swept  away  the  bridges, 
and  flooded  the  roads.  Perhaps,  your  letters 
are  delayed  from  this  cause.  Perhaps,  the 
ways  have  been  impassable. 

Mr.  Talbot  has  been  abroad  during  the 
morning.  We  expect  him  to  return  presently. 
He  may  bring  us  letters. 

No  intelligence  yet  received  1  I  am  exces- 
sively uneasy.  Your  friend  is  displeased.  He 
is  almost  ready  to  repent  the  confidence  he  has 
placed  inyou.  Nothing  canjustify  your  silence. 
Your  sickness  should  not  hinder  you  from  in- 
forming him  of  certain  transactions.  Their 
importance  required  you  to  give  him  early 
notice  of  any  disaster  that  might  befal  you, 
and  common  prudence  would  enjoin  you  to 
take  measures  for  conveying  this  intelligence 
by  the  hands  of  others,  in  case  of  your  inca- 
pacity..,. 

D  2 


46  CLARA  HOWARD. 

The  coming  of  the  post  has  been  interrupted 
only  for  one  day.  The  reason  why  we  have 
not  heard  from  you,  can  only  be  your  not  hav- 
ing written.  ISIy  thoughts  are  too  much  dis- 
turbed to  permit  me  to  write  any  more.  I  will 
lay  down  the  pen,  and  dispatch  this  :  perhaps, 
it  may  find  you,  and  produce  some  effect. 

C.  H. 


CLARA  HOWARD, 


LETTER  VIIL 


TO  MISS  HOWARD. 

Schuylkill,  April  10. 

I  WRITE  to  you  by  the  hand  of  another. 
Be  not  greatly  surprised  or  alarmed.  Perhaps, 
my  strength  is  equal  to  the  performance  of  this 
duty  for  myself,  but  my  good  friend  and  affec- 
tionate nurse,  Mrs.  Aston,  insists  upon  guid- 
ing the  pen  for  me.  She  sits  by  my  side,  and 
promises  to  write  whatever  I  dictate. 

My  theme  is  of  an  interesting  and  affecting 
nature.  Perhaps,  it  might  appear  to  you  im- 
proper to  employ  any  hand  but  my  own.  Cir- 
cumstances must  apologize  for  me,  I  cannot 
hold  the  pen ;  the  friend,  whose  hand  I  employ, 
deserves  my  affection  and  gratitude.  On  her 
liscretion  I  can  rely.    Besides,  I  am  now  ap- 


48  CLARA  HOWARD. 

preaching  a  bourne,  where  our  scruples  and 
reserves  usually  disappear.  The  suggestions 
of  self-interest,  and  the  calculations  of  the 
future,  are  sure  to  vanish  at  the  approach  of 
death. 

When  I  wrote  you  last,  I  told  you  my  in- 
tention to  leave  the  city  on  Tuesday.  I  after- 
wards received  your  letter.  Your  censure  was 
far  more  severe  than  my  conscience  told  me  I 
deserved.  But  my  own  heart  did  not  secure 
me  from  regret.  I  was  highly  culpable  to  allow 
my  peace  to  be  molested  by  the  tenor  of  your 
letter.  In  different  circumstances,  I  should 
certainly  conceal  from  you,  its  effect  upon  my 
feelings.  I  intended  to  have  concealed  them 
from  you.  I  perceived  that,  with  respect  to 
you,  I  was  thenceforth  to  regard  myself  as  a 
stranger  and  an  out-cast ;  and  resolved  that  you 
should  sec  me  and  hear  from  me  no  more. 

In  embracing  this  scheme,  I  found  no  tran- 
quillity. Clara,  I  loved  you,  and  that  love  led 
me  to  place  my  supreme  happiness  in  the  pos- 
session of  your  heart.  For  this  you  call  me 
sensual  and  selfish.  This,atleast,convincedme 
of  one  thing ;  thatthe  happiness  which  I  formed 
to  myself,  is  beyond  my  reach  !  It  behoved  me, 


i 


CLARA  HOWARD.  49 

doubtless,  to  dismiss  all  fruitless  repinings,  as 
well  as  to  forbear  all  unprofitable  efforts.  My 
courage  was  equal  to  the  last,  but  not  to  the  first. 
Though  the  confession  will  degrade  me  still 
lower  in  your  opinion.  It  is  now  no  time  to  pre- 
varicate or  counterfeit ;  and  I  will  not  hide 
from  you  my  anguish,  and  dejection.  These 
did  not  unfit  me  for  performing  my  duty  to 
your  father,  but  they  banished  health  and  re- 
pose from  my  pillow. 

I  set  out,  on  Tuesday  morning,  for  Balti- 
more. The  usual  floods  of  this  season  having 
carried  away  the  bridge  on  Schuylkill,  we  pre- 
pared to  pass  it  in  a  boat.  The  horses  which 
drew  the  stage,  being  unaccustomed  to  this 
mode  of  conveyance,  and  being  startled  by 
the  whirlpools  and  eddies,  took  fright,  when 
the  boat  had  gained  the  middle  of  the  river, 
and  suddenly  rushed  out,  at  the  further  end, 
into  the  stream. 

All  the  passengers,  except  two  females,  had 
dismounted  from  the  carriage  before  it  entered 
the  boat.  The  air  was  extremely  cold,  and 
a  drizzling  shower  was  falling.  These  cir- 
cumstances induced  the  father  of  the  two  girls, 
who  was  one  of  our  company,  to  dissuade  them 


50  CLARA  HOWARD. 

from  alighting,  as  he  imagined  no  danger 
would  arise,  during  the  passage.  Happily  the 
passengers  and  boatmen  were  behind  the  car- 
ridge,  so  that,  in  rushing  forward,  the  horses 
drew  after  them  nothing  but  the  coach  and 
those  in  it. 

The  coach  and  horses  instantly  sunk.  The 
curtains,  on  all  sides,  had  been  lowered  and 
fastened ;  but  the  rushing  waters  burst  the 
fastenings,  and  by  a  miraculous  chance,  the 
two  females,  who  sat  on  one  seat  behind,  were 
extricated  in  a  moment  from  the  poles  and  cur- 
tains. The  coach  sunk  to  the  bottom,  but  the 
girls  presently  rose  to  the  surface, 

I  threw  off  my  upper  and  under  coat  in  a 
moment,  and  watching  the  place  of  their  re- 
appearance, plunged  into  the  water,  and  by  the 
assistance  of  others,  lifted  one  breathless  corpse 
into  the  boat.  Meanwhile,  the  father,  more  ter- 
rified, and  less  prudent,  threw  himself,  cloaked 
and  encumbered  as  he  was,  into  the  water,  to 
save  his  children.  Instead  of  effecting  this,  he 
was  unable  to  save  himself.  No  one  followed 
my  example  in  plunging  into  the  river,  and 
the  father  and  one  of  his  children  perished 
together. 


CLARA  HOWARD.  51 

The  immediate  consequence  of  this  expo- 
sure, in  a  feverish  state  of  my  frame,  was  a 
violent  ague,  which  gave  place  to  an  high 
fever  and  dilerium.  I  stopt  at  the  inn  on  the 
opposite  bank,  to  change  my  wet  clothes  for 
dry;  but,  having  done  this,  was  unable  to  pro- 
ceed, and  betook  myself  to  my  bed.  I  sus- 
pected nothing  more  than  an  intermittent, 
which,  however  violent,  during  its  prevalence, 
would  pass  away  in  less  than  an  hour.  In  this 
I  was  mistaken. 

My  understanding  was  greatly  disturbed. 
I  had  no  remembrance  of  the  past,  or  foresight 
of  the  future.  All  was  painful  confusion, 
which  has  but  lately  disappeared.  Clear  con- 
ceptions have  returned  to  me,  but  my  strength 
is  gone,  and  I  feel  the  cold  of  death  gradually 
gaining  on  my  heart.  My  force  of  mind  is 
not  lessened.  I  can  talk  and  reason  as  cohe- 
rently as  ever;  and  my  conclusions  are  far 
more  wise  than  while  in  perfect  health. 

The  family  of  Mr.  Aston,  residing  in  this 
neighbourhood,  hearing  of  m}^  condition,  have 
afforded  me  every  succour  and  comfort  I 
needed.  It  was  not  till  this  moment  that  I 
have  been  able  to  employ  the  suitable  means 


52  CLARA  HOWARD. 

of  conveying  to  you  tidings  of  these  events. 
Your  letter  has  just  been  brought  me  from  the 
post-office,  and  my  good  friend,  who  now 
holds  the  pen,  and  who  has  watched  by  my 
pillow  during  my  sickness,  was  good  enough 
to  read  it  to  me. 

What  shall  I  say  ?  To  one  regarding  me  as 
selfish  and  unjust;  as  even  capable  of  villainy 
and  foul  ingratitude ;  who,  among  so  many 
conjectures,  as  to  the  cause  of  my  silence,  was 
ready  to  suspect  me  of  breach  of  faith,  the  low 
guilt  of  embezzlement !  What  shall  I  say  ? 

Nothing :  I  can  say  nothing.  The  prayers 
of  a  dying  man  for  thy  felicity,  Clara,  will,  at 
least,  be  accepted  as  sincere.  There  is  no 
personal  motive  to  vitiate  this  prayer.  Thy 
happiness  must,  henceforth,  be  independent  of 
mine.  I  can  neither  be  the  author  nor  par- 
taker of  it.  Be  thou,  lovely  and  excellent  wo- 
man !  be  happy  I 

I  break  off"  here,  to  write  to  your  father.  I 
have  much  to  say  to  him,  which  another  day, 
perhaps,  another  hour,  may  forever  prevent 
me  from  saying. 

E.  H. 


CLARA  HOWARD. 


LETTER  IX. 


TO  E.  HARTLEY. 


Kew-York,  April  26. 

jNJ.  Y  father  carries  you  this.  The  merciful 
God  grant  that  he  may  find  you  alive  I  Edward, 
is  it  possible  for  you  to  forgive  me....But  I  de- 
serve it  not.  I  have  lost  you  forever!  My 
wickedness  and  folly  merited  no  less. 

My  father  smiles  and  says  there  is  hope. 
He  vows  to  find  you  out ;  to  restore  you  to 
health,  to  bring  you  back  to  us  alive  and  happy. 

Good  God  1  what  horrible  infatuation  was 
it  that  made  me  write  as  I  did  !  If  thou  diest, 
just.. ..just  will  be  my  punishment.  Never 
more  will  I  open  my  eyes  to  the  light. 

My  father,  my  mother,  will  not  suffer  me 
to  go  to  thee.  To  see  thee  once  more  ;  to  re- 


54  CLARA  HOWARD. 

ceive  thy  last  sigh  ;  to  clasp  thy  cold  remains ; 
to  find  my  everlasting  peace  in  the  same  grave. 
They  will  not  hearken  to  me ;  they  will  not 
suffer  me  to  go ! 

In  my  frantic  thoughts,  I  ran  to  the  water's 
edge.  I  was  stepping  into  the  boat  to  cross  the 
river,  determined  to  see  thee  ere  a  new  day 
returned,  but  I  was  pursued.  I  am  detained 
by  force  j  by  intreaties  more  powerful  than 
bonds  and  fetters. 

I  need  not  go.  Thou  art  gone  forever.  My 
prayer  for  forgiveness  thou  canst  not  hear. 
Heaven  has  denied  me  the  power  to  repair  the 
wrongs  that  I  have  done  thee.  To  expiate  my 
folly,  to  call  thee  back  to  my  bosom  ;  and  to 
give  my  stubborn  he^t  to  thy  possession,  can- 
BOt  be. 

C.  H. 


CLARA  HOWARD, 


LETTER  X. 


TO  MRS.  HOWARD, 


Philadelphia,  April  14. 

I  HAVE  been  here  thirty  hours,  and  have 
not  written  to  you.  I  know  your  impatience, 
and  that  of  your  girl ;  but,  till  this  hour  I  was 
unable  to  give  you  information  that  would  re- 
lieve your  fears.  Edgar  was,  indeed,  ill.  I 
found  him  in  a  state  wholly  desperate.  He  had 
not  strength  to  lift  his  eye-lids  at  my  approach, 
or  to  articulate  a  welcome. 

I  found  in  his  chamber  his  nurse  and  his 
physician.  The  former  is  a  young  lady,  newly 
married,  who  resides  in  this  neighbourhood, 
and  a  sister  of  the  person  whom  our  pupil 
saved  from  drowning.  She  has  paid  him  the 
kindest  and  most  anxious  attention. 


56  CLARA  HOWARD. 

Let  me  hasten  to  tell  you  that  the  crisis 
has  passed,  and  terminated  favourably.  A  pro- 
found sleep  of  ten  hours,  has  left  him  free  from 
pain  and  fever,  though  in  a  state  of  weakness 
which  could  not  be  carried  beyond  its  present 
degree,  without  death. 

Set  your  hearts  at  rest.  The  lad  is  safe.  I 
promised  to  bring  him  back  alive  and  well,  and 
will  certainly  fulfil  ray  promise  ;  but  some 
weeks  must  elapse  before  he  w  ill  be  fit  for  the 
journey.  You  must  wait  with  patience  till 
then.     Farewel. 

E.  Howard. 


CLARA  HOWARD. 


LETTER  XI. 


TO  E.  HARTLEY. 


New-York,  April  15- 

To  describe  the  agony  which  my  father's 
silence  produced,  both  to  my  mother  and  my- 
self, would  be  useless.  Thanks  to  my  God, 
you  are  out  of  danger.  iTfean  now  breathe 
with  freedom. 

Tell  me,  beloved  Edward,  by  your  own 
hand,  or,  if  your  weakness  will  not  suffer  it, 
by  that  of  your  friend,  that  you  forgive  me. 
O  !  that  I  were  not  at  this  unfriendly  distance 
from  you!  That  I  could  pour  out  the  tears 
of  my  remorse,  of  my  gratitude,  of  my  love, 
upon  your  hand.  I  am  jealous  of  your  lovely 
nurse.  She  is  performing  those  functions 
which  belong  to  me. 

£2 


58  CLARA  HOWARD. 

You  are  grateful  for  her  services,  are  you 
not?  Not  more  so  than  I  am.  Give  her  my 
fervent  thanks. ...but  stay,  I  will  give  them  my- 
self. I  will  write  to  her  immediately,  tell  her 
of  the  obligations  she  has  laid  upon  me,  and 
solicit  her  friendship.  She  is  an  angel,  1  am 
sure. 

Prithee,  my  friend,  make  haste  and  be 
well ;  and  fly  to  us.  The  arms  of  thy  Clara 
are  open  to  receive  thee.  She  is  ready  to 
kneel  to  thee  for  pardon ;  to  expiate  her  for- 
mer obduracy  by  years  of  gratitude  and  ten- 
derness. Lay  on  my  past  offences  what  penalty 
thou  wilt.  The  heavier  it  be  the  more  cheer- 
fully shall  I  sustain  it ;  the  more  adequate  it 
will  be  to  my  fault. 

Mary.... My  heart  droops  when  I  think  of 
her.  How  imperfect  are  schemes  of  human 
felicity.  May  Heaven  assist  me  in  driving 
from  my  mind  the  secret  conviction,  that  her 
claim  to  your  affection  is  still  valid. 

Alas!  how  fleetingis  our  confidence.  Come 
to  me  my  friend.  Exert  all  thy  persuasive  elo- 
quence. Convince  me  that  I  have  erred  in 
resigning  thy  heart  and  hand  to  another;  in 
imagining  the  claim  of  Mary  better  than  mine. 


CLARA  HOWARD.  59 

I  call  upon  thy  efforts  to  rescue  me  from 
self-condemnation ;  but  I  call  on  thee  without 
hope.  My  reason  cannot  be  deceived.  The 
sense  of  the  injustice  I  have  done  her,  will 
poison  every  enjoyment  which  union  with  thee 
"can  afford  me. 

Yet  come.     I  repent  not  of  my  invitation. 
I  retract  not  my  promise.     Make  me  irrevo- 
cably thine.     I  shall  at  least  be  happy  while  I 
forget  her,  and  I  will  labour  to  forget  her. 
Adieu. 

C.  H. 


I 


CLARA  HOWARD. 


LETTER  XII. 


TO  MISS  HOWARD. 

Philadelphia,  April  23. 

VV  HEN  you  know  my  reason  for  not  ac- 
companying your  father,  you  will  approve  of 
my  conduct.  I  am  once  more  in  health,  but 
could  not,  at  this  season,  perform  the  journey 
without  hazard.  Meanwhile,  some  affairs  re- 
main to  be  transacted  in  this  city,  to  which  my 
strength  is  fully  equal ;  and  the  assurance  of 
vour  love,  has  lulled  all  my  cares  to  repose. 

In  less  than  a  week  I  will  be  with  you. 
Rely  upon  my  power  to  convince  you  that  your 
present  decision  is  just.  If  I  had  doubts  of  its 
rectitude,  your  offer,  transporting  as  it  is, 
would  never  be  accepted. 


62  CLARA  HOWARD. 

How  little  did  you  comprehend  my  cha- 
racter, in  believing  me  capable  of  urging  you 
to  the  commission  of  what  I  deemed  wrong  ! 
And  think  you  that  even  now  I  will  accept 
your  hand,  unattended  with  the  fullest  concur- 
rence of  your  reason  ?  No  :  but  I  doubt  not 
to  obtain  that  concurrence.  I  will  fly  to  you 
on  the  wings  of  transport,  and  armed  with 
reasons  which  shall  fully  remove  your  scruples. 

These  reasons,  as  well  as  a  thousand  affect- 
ing incidents  which  have  lately  befallen  me,  I 
will  reserve  for  our  meeting.  Meanwhile, 
place  the  inclosed  portrait  in  your  bosom.  It 
is  that  of  my  nurse,  Mrs.  Aston.  She  sends 
it  to  you,  and  desires  me  to  tell  j^ou  that  she 
has  received  your  letter,  and  will  answer  it 
very  shortly.     Adieu. 

E.  H. 

P.  S.  I  stay  at  No ,  north  Eighth-street. 


CLARA  HOWARD, 


LETTER  XIII. 


TO  FRANCIS  HARRIS. 

Philadelphia,  April  23. 

Do  you  wish  for  some  account  of  my  pre- 
sent situation?  I  will  readily  comply  with  your 
request.  I  am,  indeed,  in  a  mood,  just  now, 
extremely  favourable  to  the  telling  of  a  long 
story.  I  have  no  companions  in  this  city,  and 
various  circumstances,  while  they  give  me  a 
few  days  solitude  and  leisure,  strongly  incline 
me  likewise  to  ruminate  and  moralize  on  past 
adventures. 

When  I  last  wrote  to  you,  I  told  you  my 
destiny  had  undergone  surprising  changes 
since  we  parted.  I  had  then  no  leisure  to  enter 
into  minute  particulars.  Alas  !  my  friend, 
changes  still  more  surprising  have  since  occur- 


64  CLARA  HOWARD. 

red,  but  changes  very  different  from  those  to 
which  I  then  alluded.  Then  they  were  all  be- 
nign and  joyous  :  since,  they  have  been  only 
gloomy  and  disastrous. 

But  how  far  must  I  go  back  to  render  my 
narrative  intelligible  ?  You  went  your  voyage, 
if  I  mistake  not,  just  after  I  was  settled  with 
my  uncle  and  sisters,  in  the  neighbourhood  of 
Hatfield.  I  believe  you  were  acquainted  with 
the  beginnings,  at  least,  of  my  intercourse 
with  Mr.  Howard.  I  described  to  you,  I  be- 
lieve, the  dignified,  grave  and  secluded  deport- 
ment of  that  man  ;  the  little  relish  he  appeared 
to  have  for  the  society  arouad  him,  and  the 
flattering  regards  he  bestowed  on  me. 

I  was  a  mere  country  lad,  with  little  edu- 
cation but  what  was  gained  by  myself  j  diffident 
and  bashful  as  the  rawest  inexperience  could 
make  me.  He  was  a  man  of  elevated  and 
sedate  demeanour  ;  living,  if  not  with  splen- 
dour, yet  with  elegance ;  withdrawing  in  a  great 
degree  from  the  society  of  his  neighbours  ; 
immersed  in  books  and  papers,  and  wholly 
given  to  study  and  contemplation. 

I  shall  never  forget  the  occasion  on  which 
he  first  honoured  me  with  his  notice  ;  the  un- 


CLARA  HOWARD.  66 

speakable  delight  which  his  increasing  famili- 
arity and  confidence  ;  my  admission  to  his 
house,  and  my  partaking  of  his  conversation 
and  instructions  afforded  me.  I  recollect  the 
gradual  disappearance,  in  his  intercourse  with 
me,  of  that  reserve  and  austerity  which  he  still 
maintained  to  the  rest  of  mankind,  with  emo- 
tions of  gratitude  and  pleasure  unutterable. 

He  had  reason  to  regard  me,  indeed,  some- 
what like  his  own  son.  I  had  no  father  ;  I  had 
no  property :  there  was  no  one  among  my  own 
relations,  who  had  any  particular  claim  upon 
my  reverence  or  affection.  A  thousand  tokens 
in  my  demeanour,  must  have  manifested  a  ve- 
neration for  him  next  to  idolatry.  INly  temper 
was  artless  and  impetuous,  and  several  little 
incidents  occurred,  during  the  many  years  that 
I  frequented  his  house,  that  brought  forth 
striking  proofs  of  my  attachment  to  him.  I 
greedily  swallowed  his  lessons,  and  remem- 
ber how  often  his  eyes  sparkled,  his  counte- 
nance brightened  into  smiles,  and  his  tongue 
lavished  applause  on  my  v/onderful  docilltv 
and  rapid  progress.  He  shewed  his  affection 
for  me,  by  giving  his  instructions,  inquiring 
into  my  situation,  and  directing  me  in  every 


66  CLARA  HOWARD. 

case  of  difficulty  that  occurred ;  but  he  never 
offered  to  become  my  real  father;  to  be  at  the 
expense  of  my  subsistence,  or  my  education 
to  any  liberal  profession.  Indeed,  he  was  anxi- 
ous to  persuade  me  that  the  farmer's  life  was 
the  life  of  true  dignity,  and  that,  however  de- 
sirable to  me  property  might  be,  I  ought  to 
entertain  no  wish  to  change  my  mode  of  life. 
That  was  a  lesson  which  he  was  extremely 
assiduous  to  teach. 

He  never  gave  me  money,  nor  ever  suf- 
fered the  slightest  hint  to  escape  him  that  he 
designed  to  carry  his  munificence  any  farther 
than  to  lend  me  his  company,  his  conversation 
and  his  books.  Indeed,  in  my  attachment  to 
him,  there  was  nothing  sordid  or  mercenary. 
It  never  occurred  to  me  to  reflect  on  this  fru- 
gality J  this  limitation  of  his  bounty.  What 
he  gave  was,  in  my  own  eyes,  infinitely  beyond 
my  merits,  and  instead  of  panting  after  more, 
I  was  only  astonished  that  he  gave  me  so 
much.  Indeed,  had  I  had  wisdom  enough  to 
judge  of  appearances,  I  should  have  naturally 
supposed  that  there  existed  many  others  who 
had  stronger  claims  upon  his  fortune  than  I 
had,  and  might  actually  enjoy  his  bounty. 


CLARA  HOWARD.  67 

His  family  and  situation  were,  indeed, 
wholly  unknown  to  me  and  his  neighbours. 
He  was  a  native  of  Britain  ;  had  not  been  long 
in  America ;  lived  alone  and  in  affluence  ;  was 
a  man  past  the  middle  of  life  ;  enjoyed  a  calm, 
studious  and  contemplative  existence.  This 
was  the  sum  of  all  the  knowledge  I  ever  ob- 
tained of  him.  Indeed,  my  curiosity  never 
carried  me  into  stratagems  or  guesses,  in  or- 
der to  discover  what  he  did  not  voluntarily 
disclose,  or  what  he  was  desirous  to  conceal. 

The  mournful  day  of  his  departure  from 
Hatfield,  and  from  America,  at  last  arrived. 
I  never  was  taught  to  believe  that  he  designed 
to  pass  his  life  in  America.  I  naturally  re- 
garded him  as  merely  a  sojourner,  but  never 
inquired  how  long  he  meant  to  stay  among  us. 
When  he  told  me,  therefore,  that  he  should 
«mbark  in  a  week,  I  felt  no  surprise,  though 
it  was  impossible  to  conceal  my  impatience 
and  regret.  I  never  felt  a  keener  pang  than 
his  last  embrace  gave  me. 

He  parted  with  me  with  every  mark  of  pa- 
ternal tenderness.  Yet  he  left  nothing  behind 
him,  as  a  memorial  of  his  affection.  Even  the 
books  that  I  had  often  read  under  his  roof. 


68  CLARA  HOWARD. 

some  of  which  were  my  chief  favourites,  and 
would  have  been  prized,  for  the  donor's  sake, 
beyond  their  weight  in  rubies,  he  carried  away 
with  him.  Neither  did  he  explain  the  causes 
of  his  voyage,  or  give  me  any  expectation  of 
seeing  him  again. 

My  obligations  to  Mr.  Howard  cannot  be 
measured.  To  him  am  I  indebted  for  what- 
ever distinguishes  me  from  the  stone  which 
I  turned  up  with  my  plough,  or  the  stock 
which  I  dissevered  with  my  axe.  My  under- 
standing was  awakened,  disciplined,  inform- 
ed ;  my  affections  were  cherished,  exercised, 
and  regulated  by  him.  My  heart  was  pene- 
trated with  a  sentiment,  in  regard  to  him.... 
perhaps,  it  would  be  impious  to  call  it  de- 
votion. The  divinity  only  can  claim  that; 
yet  this  man  was  a  sort  of  divinity  to  me  :  the 
substitute  and  representative  of  heaven,  in  my 
eyes,  and  for  my  good. 

I  besought  him  to  let  me  accompany  him. 
I  anxiously  inquired  whether  I  might  cherish 
the  hope  of  ever  seeing  him  again.  The  first 
request  he  made  me  ashamed  of  having  urged, 
by  shewing  me  that  I  had  sisters  who  needed 
my  protection,  and  for  whose  sake  I  ought  to 


CLARA  HOWARD.  69 

labour  to  attain  independence.  His  own  des- 
tiny would  be  regulated  by  future  events,  but 
be  deemed  it  most  probable  that  we  should  ne- 
v^er  see  each  other  more. 

The  melancholy  inspired  by  this  separa- 
tion from  one  who  was  not  only  my  best,  but 
my  sole  friend,  was  not  dissipated,  like  the 
other  afflictions  of  youth,  by  the  lapse  of  a  few- 
months.  Being  accompanied  with  absolute 
uncertainty  as  to  his  condition  and  place  of 
residence,  it  produced  the  same  effect  that  his 
death  would  have  done.  This  melancholy, 
though  no  variety  of  scene  could  have  effaced 
it,  was,  no  doubt,  aggravated  by  the  cheerless 
solitude  in  which  I  was  placed.  The  rustic 
life  was  wholly  unsuitable  to  my  temper  and 
taste.  My  active  mind  panted  for  a  nobler 
and  wider  sphere  of  action ;  and  after  endu- 
ring the  inconveniences  of  my  sequestered 
situation,  for  some  time,  I,  at  length,  bound 
myself  apprentice  to  a  watch-maker  in  the  city. 
My  genius  was  always  turned  towards  me- 
chanics, and  I  could  imagine  no  art  more  re- 
spectable or  profitable  than  this. 

Shortly  after  my  removal  to  the  city,  I  be- 
came acquainted  with  a  young  man  by  the 
F  2 


70  CLARA  HOWARD. 

name  of  Wilmot.  There  were  many  points 
of  resemblance  between  us.  We  were  equally- 
fond  of  study  and  reflection,  and  the  same 
literary  pursuits  happened  to  engage  our  pas- 
sions. Hence  a  cordial  and  incessant  inter- 
course took  place  between  us. 

I  suppose  you  know  nothing  of  Wilmot. 
Yet  possibly  you  have  heard  something  of  the 
family.  They  were  of  no  small  note  in  Dela- 
ware. Not  natives  of  the  country.  The  father 
was  an  emigrant,  who  brought  a  daughter  and 
this  son  with  him,  when  children,  from  Europe. 
He  purchased  a  delightful  place  on  Brandy- 
•wine,  built  an  house,  laid  out  gardens,  and 
passed  a  merry  life  among  horses,  dogs,  and 
boon  companions.  He  died,  at  length,  by  a 
fall  from  his  horse,  when  his  daughter  Mary 
was  sixteen  years  of  age,  and  the  son  four  or 
five  years  younger. 

These  children  had  been  trained  up  in  the 
most  luxurious  manner.  The  girl  had  been 
her  own  mistress,  and  the  mistress  of  her  fa- 
ther's purse  from  a  very  early  age.  All  the 
prejudices  and  expectations  of  an  heiress  were 
tarly  and  deeply  imbibed  by  her;  and  her 
lather's  character  had  hindered  her  from  form- 


CLARA  HOWARD.  71 

ing  any  affectionate  or  useful  friends  of  her 
own  sex,  while  those  who  called  themselves 
his  friends  were  either  merely  jovial  compa- 
nions or  cunning  creditors.  It  very  soon  ap- 
peared that  Wilmot's  fortune  had  lasted  just 
as  long  as  his  life.  House,  and  land,  and  stock 
were  sold  by  auction,  to  discharge  his  numer- 
ous debts,  and  nothing  but  a  surplus  on  the 
sale  of  the  furniture,  remained  to  the  heirs. 

Mary,  after  a  recluse  and  affluent  educa- 
tion, was  thus  left,  at  the  inexperienced  age 
of  sixteen,  friendless  and  forlorn,  to  find  the 
means  of  subsistence  for  herself  and  her  bro- 
ther, in  her  own  ingenuity  and  industry.  It 
cannot  be  supposed  that  she  escaped  all  the 
obvious  and  enervating  effects  of  such  an  edu- 
cation. Her  pride  was  sorely  wounded  by 
this  reverse,  but  nature  had  furnished  her  with 
a  vigorous  mind,  which  made  it  impossible 
for  her  to  sink,  either  into  meanness  or  despair. 
She  was  not  wise  enough  to  endure  poverty 
and  straitened  accommodations,  and  a  toil- 
some calling,  with  serenity;  but  she  was  stre- 
nuous enough  to  adopt  the  best  means  for  re- 
pairing the  ills  that  oppressed  her. 


72  CLARA  HOWARD. 

She  retired,  with  the  wreck  of  her  father's 
property,  from  the  scene  in  which  she  had 
been  accustomed  to  appear  with  a  splendour 
no  longer  hers.  Her  sensibility  found  conso- 
lation in  living  obscure  and  unknown.  For 
this  end,  she  removed  to  the  city,  took  cheap 
lodgings  in  the  suburbs,  and  reduced  all  her 
expences  to  the  most  frugal  standard.  With 
the  money  she  brought  with  her,  she  placed 
her  brother  at  a  reputable  grammar  school, 
and  her  acquaintance,  by  very  slow  degress, 
extending  beyond  her  own  roof  among  the 
good  and  considerate  part  of  the  community, 
she  acquired,  by  the  exercise  of  the  needle,  a 
slender  provision  for  herself  and  her  brother. 

The  boy  was  a  noble  and  generous  spirit, 
and  endowed  with  ardent  thirst  of  knowledge. 
He  made  a  rapid  progress  in  his  learning,  and 
at  the  age  of  sixteen,  became  usher  in  the 
school  in  which  he  had  been  trained.  He  was 
smitten  with  the  charms  of  literature  ;  and 
greatly  to  his  sisters  disappointment  and  vex- 
ation, refused  to  engage  in  any  of  those  pro- 
fessions which  lead  to  riches  and  honour.  He 
adopted  certain  antiquated  and  unfashionable 
notions   about  the    "   grandeur  of  retreat," 


CLARA  HOWARD.  73 

"  honourable  poverty,"  a  studious  life,  and 
the  dignity  of  imparting  knowledge  to  others. 
The  desk,  bar,  and  pulpit,  had  no  attractions 
for  him.  This,  no  doubt,  partly  arose  from 
youthful  timidity  and  self-diffidence,  and  age 
might  have  insensibly  changed  his  views. 

My  intercourse  with  Wilmot,  introduced 
me,  of  course,  to  the  knowledge  of  his  sister. 
I  usually  met  him  at  her  lodgings.  Sundays 
and  all  our  evenings  were  spent  together,  and 
as  Mary  had  few  or  no  visitants,  on  her  own 
account,  she  was  nearly  on  the  same  footing 
of  domestic  familiarity  with  me,  as  with  her 
brother. 

She  was  much  older  than  I.  Humiliation 
and  anxiety  had  deeply  preyed  on  her  consti- 
tution, which  had  never  been  florid  or  robust, 
and  made  still  less  that  small  portion  of  ex- 
ternal grace  or  beauty,  which  nature  had 
conferred  upon  her.  Dignity,  however,  was 
conspicuous  in  her  deportment,  and  intelli- 
gence glowed  in  her  delicate  and  pliant  fea- 
tures. Her  manners  were  extremely  mild, 
her  voice  soft  and  musical,  and  her  conversa- 
tion full  of  originality  and  wisdom.  The  high 
place  to  which  she  admitted  me  in  her  esteem, 


74  CLARA  HOWARD. 

and  the  pleasure  she  took  in  my  compan)-, 
demanded  my  esteem  and  gratitude  in  return. 
In  a  short  time,  she  took  place  of  her  brother 
in  my  confidence  and  veneration. 

I  never  loved  Mary  Wilmot.  Disparity 
of  age,  the  dignity  and  sedateness  of  her  car- 
riage, and  perhaps  the  want  of  personal  attrac- 
tions, inspired  me  with  a  sentiment,  very 
different  from  love.  Yet  there  was  no  sacri- 
fice of  inclination  which  I  would  not  cheerfully 
have  made,  in  the  cause  of  her  happiness. 
Though  union  with  her  could  not  give  me  the 
raptures,  that  fortunate  love  is  said  to  produce  j 
it  was  impossible  to  find  them  with  another 
while  she  was  miserable. 

I  had  no  experience  of  the  passions.  I  knew, 
and  conversed  with  no  woman  but  Mary,  and 
imagined  that  no  human  being  possessed  equal 
excellences.  I  had  no  counter-longing  to  con- 
tend with  ;  and,  to  say  truth,  did  not  suspect 
that  my  regard,  for  any  woman,  could  possibly 
be  carried  further  than  what  I  felt  for  her. 

Mary's  knowledge  of  the  heart,  the  per- 
suasion of  her  own  defects,  or  her  refined 
conception  of  the  passions,  made  her  less  san- 
guine and  impetuous.     Her  love  was  to  be 


CLARA  HOWARD.  75 

indisputably  requited  by  a  love  as  fervent, 
before  she  would  permit  herself  to  indulge  in 
hopes  of  felicity,  or  allow  me  to  esteem,  in  her, 
my  future  wife :  Our  mutual  situation,  by  no 
means  justified  marriage.  Secure  and  regular 
means  of  subsistence  were  wanting,  as  I  had, 
somewhat  indiscreetly,  bound  myself  to  serve 
a  parsimonious  master,  for  a  much  longer  pe- 
riod than  was  requisite  to  make  me  a  proficient 
in  my  art.  Meanwhile,  there  subsisted  be- 
tween us,  the  most  affectionate  and  cordial 
intercourse,  such  as  was  worthy  of  her  love, 
and  my  boundless  esteem. 

As  long  as  the  possibility  of  marriage  was 
distant,  this  discord  of  feelings  was  of  less 
moment.  A  very  great  misfortune,  however, 
seemed  to  have  brought  it,  for  a  time,  very 
near.  Wilmot  embarked  on  the  river,  ^^in  an 
evil  hour,  and  the  boat  being  upset  by  a  gust 
of  wind,  was  drowned.  The  brother  and  sis- 
ter tenderly  loved  each  other,  and  this  calamity 
was  long  and  deeply  deplored  by  the  survivor. 
One  unexpected  good,  however,  grew  out  of 
this  event.  Wilmot  was  found  to  be  credited 
in  the  bank  of  P.  for  so  large  a  sum  as  five 
thousand  dollars. 


76  CLARA  HOWARD. 

You  will  judge  of  the  surprise  produced 
by  such  a  discovery,  when  I  tell  you  that  this 
credit  appeared  to  have  been  given,  above  two 
years  before  Wilmot's  death:  that  we,  his 
constant  and  intimate  associates,  had  never 
heard  the  slightest  intimation  of  his  possessing 
any  thing  beyond  the  scanty  income  of  his 
school:  that  his  expences,  continued,  till  the 
day  of  his  death,  perfectly  conformable  to  the 
known  amount  of  this  wretched  income,  and 
that  no  documents  could  be  found  among  his 
papers,  throwing  any  light  on  the  mystery. 

I  shall  not  recount  the  ten  thousand  fruitless 
conjectures,  that  were  formed  to  account  for 
this  circumstance.  None  was  more  probable, 
than  that  Wilmot  held  this  money  for  ano- 
ther. Mary  was  particularly  confident  of  the 
truth  of  this  conclusion,  though,  to  me,  it  was 
not  unembarrassed  with  difficulties,  for  why 
was  no  written  evidence  ;  no  memorandum  or 
letter  to  be  found  respecting  the  trust;  and 
why  did  he  maintain  so  obstinate  a  silence  on 
the  subject,  to  us,  to  whom  he  was  accustom, 
ed  to  communicate  every  action  and  everv 
thought  ? 


CLARA  HOWARD.  n 

We  endeavoured  to  recollect  Wilmot's 
conversation  and  deportment,  at  the  time  this 
money  was  deposited,  by  him,  in  his  own 
name,  in  bank.  This  clue  seemed  to  lead  to 
some  discovery.  I  well  remembered  a  thought- 
fulness,  at  that  period,  not  usual  in  my  friend, 
and  a  certain  conversation,  that  took  place,  be- 
tween us,  on  the  propriety  of  living  on  the 
bounty  of  others,  when  able  to  maintain  our- 
selves by  our  own  industry.  In  short,  I  was 
extremely  willing  to  conclude  that  this  money 
had  been  a  present  to  Wilmot,  from  some 
paternal  friend  of  his  family,  or,  perhaps,  some 
kinsman  from  a  distance.  At  all  events,  as 
this  sum  had  lain  undisturbed  in  bank  for  two 
years,  I  saw  no  reason  why  it  should  not  be 
applied  to  the  purpose  of  subsistence,  by  his 
sister,  to  whom  it  now  fully  belonged. 

It  was  difficult  to  overcome  her  scruples. 
At  length  she  determined  to  use  as  small  a 
part  as  her  necessities  could  dispense  with,  and 
to  leave  the  rest  untouched  for  half  a  year 
longer,  when,  if  no  claimant  appeared,  she 
might  use  it  with  less  scruple.  This  half  year 
of  precaution  expired,  and  nobody  appeared 
to  dispute  her  right. 


CLARA  HOWARD. 

She  now  became  extremely  anxious  to  di- 
vide this  sum,  gratuitously,  with  me.  To  me, 
the  only  obstacle  to  marriage  was,  the  want  of 
property.  This  obstacle,  if  Mary  Wilmot  con- 
sented to  bestow  her  hand,  where  her  heart 
had  long  reposed,  would  be  removed.  It  was 
difficult,  however,  to  persuade  her  to  accept 
a  man  on  w  horn  she  doated  j  but  who,  though 
urgent  in  his  proffers,  was  not  as  deeply  in 
love  afs  herself.  At  length,  she  consented  to 
be  mine,  provided,  at  the  end  of  another  half 
year,  I  should  continue  equally  desirous  of  the 
gift. 

At  this  time,  I  was  become  my  own  mas- 
ter, and  having  placed  Mary  in  a  safe  and  rural 
asylum  at  Abingdon,  I  paid  a  visit  of  a  few 
weeks  to  my  uncle  near  Hatfield.  I  had  been 
here  scarcely  a  fortnight,  when,  one  evening, 
a  stranger  whom  I  had  formerly  known  in  my 
boyish  days,  as  the  son  of  a  neighbouring  far- 
mer, paid  me  a  visit.  This  person  had  been 
abroad,  for  several  years,  on  mercantile  ad- 
ventures, in  Europe  and  the  West-Indies.  He 
had  just  returned,  and  after  various  ineffectual 
inquiries  after  Wilmot,  with  whom  he  had 
been  formerly  in  habits  of  confidence,  he  had 


CLARA  HOWARD.  79 

come  to  me,  in  the  prosecution  of  the  same 
search. 

After  various  preliminaries,  he  made  me 
acquainted  with  the  purpose  of  his  search.  The 
substance  of  his  story  was  this ;  After  toiling 
for  wealth,  during  several  years,  in  different 
ports  of  the  Mediterranean,  he  at  length  ac- 
quired what  he  deemed  sufficient  for  frugal 
subsistence  in  America.  His  property  he 
partly  invested  in  a  ship  and  her  cargo,  and 
partly  in  a  bill  of  exchange  for^^e  thousand 
dollars.  This  bill  he  transmitted  to  his  friend 
Wilmot,  with  directions  to  reser\'e  the  pro- 
ceeds till  his  arrival.  He  embarked,  mean- 
while, in  his  own  vessel,  sending,  at  the  same 
time,  directions  to  his  wife,  who  was  then  at 
Glasgow,  to  meet  him  in  America. 

Unfortunately  the  ship  was  wrecked  on  the 
coast  of  Africa ;  the  cargo  was  plundered  or 
destroyed  by  the  savage  natives,  and  he,  and 
a  few  survivors,  were  subjected  to  innumerable 
hardships,  and  the  danger  of  perpetual  ser\-i- 
tude.  From  this  he  was  delivered  by  the  agents 
of  the  United  States,  in  consequence  of  atreaty 
being  ratified  between  us  and  the  government 
of  Algiers.  Morton  was  among  the  miserable 


80  CLARA  HOWARD. 

wretches  whose  chains  were  broken  on  that 
occasion,  and  he  had  just  touched  the  shore  of 
his  native  country. 

His  attention  was  naturally  directed,  in  the 
first  place,  to  the  fate  of  the  property  transmit- 
ted to  Wilmot.  Wilmot,  he  heard,  died  sud- 
denly. Wilmot's  sister,  his  only  known  rela- 
tion, was  gone  nobody  could  tell  whither.  The 
merchant,  on  whom  his  bills  had  been  drawn, 
was  partner  in  an  Hamburg  house,  to  which 
he  had  lately  returned.  The  ships  in  which 
he  sent  his  letters^  had  safely  arrived.  His 
bills  had  never  been  protested  at  any  of  the 
notaries,  but  all  the  written  evidences  of  this 
transaction,  that  had  remained  in  his  own 
hands,  had  been  buried,  with  his  other  property, 
in  the  waves. 

After  some  suspense,  and  much  inquir}'', 
he  v/as  directed  to  me,  as  the  dearest  friend  of 
Wilmot,  and  the  intended  husband  of  his 
sister. 

You  will  see,  my  friend,  that  the  mystery 
which  perplexed  us  so  long,  was  now  at  an 
end.  The  coincidence  between  the  sum  re- 
mitted, and  that  in  our  possession,  and  between 
the  time  of  the  probable  receipt  of  the  bills,  and 


CLARA  HOWARD.  SI 

that  of  the  deposit  made  by  Wilmot  at  the 
bank,  left  me  in  no  doubt  as  to  the  true  owner 
of  the  money. 

I  explained  to  Morton,  with  the  utmost 
clearness  and  simplicity,  every  particular  rela- 
tive to  this  affair.  I  acknowledged  the  plau- 
sibility of  his  claim ;  assured  him  of  miss 
Wilmot's  readiness,  and  even  eagerness,  to  do 
him  justice,  and  promised  to  furnish  him,  on 
his  return  to  Philadelphia,  with  a  letter,  intro* 
ducing  him  to  my  friend.     We  parted. 

This  was  a  most  heavy  and  unlooked-for 
disappointmentofall  our  schemes  of  happiness. 
My  heart  bled  with  compassion  for  the  forlorn 
and  destitute  Mary.  To  be  thus  rescued  from 
obscurity  and  penury,  merely,  to  have  these 
evils  augmented  by  the  bitterness  of  disappoint- 
ment, was  an  hard  lot. 

I  was  just  emancipated  from  my  servitude. 
I  was  perfectly  skilled  in  my  art,  but  mere  skill 
might  supply  myself  with  scanty  bread,  with- 
out enabling  me  to  support  a  family.  For  that 
end,  credit  to  procure  anhouse,  and  the  means 
of  purchasing  tools'and  materials,  were  neces- 
sary ;  but  I  knew  not  which  way  to  look  for 
them. 

g2 


1 


82  CLARA  HOWARD. 

My  nearest  relation  was  my  uncle  Walter, 
who  had  taken  me  and  my  sisters,  in  our  in- 
fancy, into  his  protection,  and  had  maintained 
the  girls,  ever  since.     His  whole  property, 
however,  was  a  small  farm,  whose  profits  were 
barely  sufficient  to  defray  the  current  expences 
of  his  family.  At  his  death,  this  asylum  would 
be  lost  to  us,  as  his  son,  who  would  then  be- 
.  come  the  occupant,  had  always  avowed  the 
most  malignant  envy  and  rancorous  aversion 
to  us.     As  my  uncle  was  old,  and  of  a  feeble 
constitution,  and  as  the  girls  were  still  young, 
and  helpless,  I  had  abundant  theme  on  my 
own  account,  for  uneasy  meditation.  To  these 
reflections  were  added  the  miseries,  which  this 
reverse  of  fortune,  would  bring  down  upon 
the  womanwhom  I  prized  beyond  all  the  world. 
One  day,  while  deeply  immersed  in  such 
contemplations  as  these,  and  musefully  and 
mournfully  pacing  up  and  down  the  piazza  of 
the  inn  at  Hatfield,  a  chaise  came  briskly  up 
to  the  door  and  stopped.   I  lifted  my  eyes,  and 
beheld,  alighting  from  it,  a  venerable  figure, 
in  whom  I  instantly  recognized  my  friend  and 
benefactor,  Mr.  Howard.  The  recognition  was 
not  more  sudden  on  my  side  than  on  his,  though 


CLARA  HOWARD.  83 

a  few  years,  at  my  age,  were  sufficient  to  pro- 
duce great  changes  in  personal  appearance. 
Surprise  and  joy  nearly  deprived  me  of  my 
senses,  when  he  took  me  in  his  arms  and  sa- 
luted me  in  the  most  paternal  manner.  We 
entered  the  house,  and  as  soon  as  I  regained 
my  breath,  I  gave  utterance  to  my  transports, 
in  the  most  extravagant  terms. 

After  the  first  emotion  had  subsided,  he 
informed  me  that  the  sole  object  of  his  present 
journey  to  Hatfield,  was  a  meeting  with  me. 
He  had  just  arrived,  with  a  wife  and  daughter, 
in  America,  where  he  designed  to  pass  the 
rest  of  his  days.  It  was  his  anxious  hope  to 
find  me  well  and  in  my  former  situation,  as  he 
was  now  able  to  take  the  care  of  providing  for 
me  into  his  own  hands.  He  inquired  minutely 
into  my  history  since  we  parted.  I  could  not 
immediately  conquer  my  reserve,  on  that  sub- 
ject, that  was  nearest  my  heart;  but  in  other 
respects,  I  was  perfectly  explicit. 

My  narrative  seemed  not  to  displease  him, 
and  he  condescended  in  his  turn,  to  give  me 
some  insight  into  his  own  condition.  I  now  dis- 
covered that  he  was  sprung  from  the  younger 
branch  of  a  family,  at  once,  ancient  and  noble. 


84  CLARA  HOWARD. 

He  received  an  education,  more  befitting  his 
birth  than  his  fortune  ;  and  had,  by  a  thought- 
less and  dissipated  life,  wasted  his  small  pa- 
trimony. This  misfortune  had  contributed 
to  tame  his  spirit,  to  open  his  eyes  on  the  foUy 
of  his  past  conduct,  and  to  direct  him  in  the 
choice  of  more  rational  pursuits. 

He  was  early  distinguished  by  the  favour- 
able regards  of  a  lady  of  great  beauty  and  ac- 
complishments. This  blessing  he  did  not 
prize  as  he  ought.  Though  his  devotion  to 
Clara  Lisle  was  fervent,  he  suffered  the  giddi- 
ness of  }'outh,  and  the  fascinations  of  pleasure, 
to  draw  him  aside  from  the  path  of  his  true 
interest.  Her  regard  for  him  made  her  over- 
look many  of  his  foibles,  and  induced  her  to 
try  various  means  to  restore  him  to  virtue  and 
discretion.  These  effosts  met  with  various 
success,  till,  at  length,  some  flagrant  and  unex- 
pected deviation,  contrary  to  promises,  and 
in  defiance  of  her  warnings,  caused  a  breach 
between  them  that  was  irreparable. 

The  head  of  the  nobler  branch  of  Mr.  How- 
ard's family,  was  a  cousin,  a  man  of  an  excel- 
lent, though  not  of  shining  character.  He  had 
long  been  my  friend's  competitor  for  the  favour 


CLARA  HOWARD.  85 

of  miss  Lisle.  The  lady's  friends  were  his 
strenuous  advocates,  and  used  every  expedi- 
ent of  argument  or  authority,  to  subdue  her 
prepossessions  for  another.  None  of  these 
had  any  influence,  -while  my  friend  afforded 
her  any  hopes  of  his  reformation.  Hisrashness 
and  folly,  having,  at  length,  extinguished  these 
hopes,  she  complied,  after  much  reluctance 
and  delay,  with  the  wishes  of  her  family. 

This  event,  communicated  by  the  lady 
herself  in  a  letter  to  my  friend,  in  which  her 
motives  were  candidly  stated,  and  the  most 
pathetic  admonitions  were  employed  to  point 
out  the  errors  of  his  conduct,  effected  an  im- 
mediate reformation.  The  blessing  which  he 
neglected  or  slighted,  when  within  his  reach, 
now  acquired  inestimable  value.  His  regrets 
and  remorses  were  very  keen,  and  terminated 
in  a  resolution  to  convert  the  wreck  of  his  for- 
tune into  an  annuity,  and  retire  for  the  rest  of 
his  life,  to  America.  This  income,  though 
small,  was  sufficient,  economically  managed, 
to  maintain  him  decently,  at  such  a  village  as 
Hatfield. 

His  residence  here,  at  a  distance  from  anci- 
ent companions,  and  from  all  the  usual  incite- 


86  CLARA  HOWARD. 

ments  to  extravagance,  completed,  in  a  few 
years,  a  thorough  change  in  his  character.  He 
became,  as  I  have  formerly  described  him,  tem- 
perate, studious,  gentle,  and  sedate.  The  irk- 
someness  of  solitude,  was  somewhat  relieved, 
by  his  acquaintance  with  me,  and  by  the  efforts, 
which  his  growing  kindness  for  poor  Ned, 
induced  him  to  make  for  improving  and  be- 
friending the  lad.  These  efforts,  he  imagined 
to  be  crowned  with  remarkable  success,  and 
gradually  concentred  all  his  social  feelings  in 
affection  for  me.  He  resolved  to  be  a  father 
to  me  while  living,  and  to  leave  his  few  mov- 
ables, all  he  had  to  leave,  to  me,  at  his  death. 

These  prospects  were  somewhat  disturbed, 
by  intelligence  from  home,  that  his  cousin  was 
dead. 

Eighteen  years  absence  from  his  native 
country,  and  from  miss  Lisle,  had  greatly 
strengthened  his  attachment  to  his  present 
abode,  but  had  not  effaced  all  the  impressions 
of  his  youth.  The  recollection  of  that  lady's 
charms,  her  fidelity  to  him  in  spite  of  the  op- 
position of  her  family,  and  of  his  own  deme- 
rits, her  generous  efforts  to  extricate  him  from 
his  difficulties,  which  even  proceeded  so  far, 


CLARA  HOWARD.  8/ 

as  to  pay,  indirectly,  and  through  the  agency  of 
others,  a  debt  for  which  he  had  been  arrested, 
always  filled  his  heart  with  tenderness  and  ve- 
neration. These  thoughts  produced  habitual 
seriousness,  gratitude  to  this  benefactor,  an 
ardent  zeal  to  fulfil  her  hopes  by  the  dignity 
of  his  future  deportment;  but  was  not  attended 
with  any  anger  or  reget  at  her  compliance  with 
the  prudent  wishes  of  her  family,  and  her 
choice  of  one  infinitely  more  worthy  than  him- 
self. At  this  he  sincerely  rejoiced,  and  felt  a 
pang,  at  the  news  of  that  interruption  to  her 
felicity,  occasioned  by  her  husband's  death. 

This  event,  however,  came  gradually  to  be 
viewed  with  somewhat  different  emotions. 
He  began  to  reflect,  that  a  tenderness  so  fer- 
vent as  was  once  cherished  for  him,  was  not 
likely  to  be  totally  extinguished,  by  any  thing 
but  death.  His  cousin,  though  a  man  of  worth, 
had  been  accepted  from  the  impulse  of  gene* 
rosity  and  pity,  and  not  from  that  of  love.  She 
had  been  contented,  and  perhaps,  happy  in  her 
union  with  him ;  but,  if  her  first  passion  was 
extinct,  he  imagined  there  would  be  found 
no  ver}^  great  diflGiculty  in  reviving  it.     Both 


88  CLARA  HOWARD. 

were  still  in  the  prime  of  life,  being  under 
thirty-eight  years  of  age. 

The  correspondence,  so  long  suspended, 
was  now  renewed  between  them  ;  and  Mr, 
Howard,  with  altered  views,  and  renovated 
hopes,  now  embarked  for  that  country  which 
he  had  believed  himself  to  have  forever  ab- 
jured. This  new  state  of  his  affairs,  by  no 
means  lessened  his  attachment  to  the  fortunate 
youth,  who  had  been,  for  eight  years,  the  sole 
companion  of  his  retirement.  While  his  own 
destiny  was  unaccomplished,  he  thought  itpro- 
per  to  forbear  exciting  any  hopes  in  me.  Should 
his  darling  purpose  be  defeated,  he  meant  im- 
mediately to  return.  Should  he  meet  with 
success,  and  his  present  views,  as  to  the  pre- 
ference due  to  America,  as  a  place  of  abode, 
continued,  he  meant  to  exert  his  influence  with 
the  elder  and  younger  Clara^  for  his  cousin  had 
left  behind  him  one  child,  a  daughter,  now  in 
the  bloom  of  youth,  to  induce  them  to  emi* 
grate.  In  every  case,  however,  he  was  resolved 
that  the  farmer-boy  should  not  be  forgotten. 

His  projects  were  crowned,  though  not  im- 
mediately,  with  all  the  success  to  be  desired. 
The  pair,  whom  so  many  years,  and  so  wide  an 


CLARA  HOWARD.  89 

interval  had  severed,  were  now  united,  and 
the  picture,  which  Mr.  Howard  drew,  of  the 
American  climate  and  society,  obtained  his 
wife's  consent  to  cross  the  ocean. 

"  My  dear  Ned,"  said  Mr.  Howard  to  me, 
after  relating  these  particulars,  "  I  have  a  plea- 
sure in  this  meeting  with  you,  that  I  cannot 
describe.  You  are  the  son,  not  of  my  instincts, 
but  of  my  affections  and  my  reason.  Formerly 
I  gave  you  my  advice,  my  instructions,  and 
company  only,  because  I  had  nothing  more  to 
give.  Now  I  am  rich,  and  will  take  care  that 
you  shall  never  be  again  exposed  to  the  chances 
of  poverty.  Though  opulent,  I  do  not  mean 
to  be  idle.  He  that  knows  the  true  use  of  riches, 
never  can  be  rich  enough  ;  but  my  occupation 
will  leave  me  leisure  enough  for  enjoyment ; 
and  you,  who  will  share  my  labour,  shall  par- 
take liberally  of  the  profit.  For  this  end,  I 
mean  to  admit  you  as  an  inseparable  member 
of  my  family,  and  to  place  you,  in  every  respect, 
on  the  footing  of  my  son. 

"  My  family  consists  of  my  wife  and  her 
daughter.  The  latter  is  now  twenty-three,  and 
you  will  be  able  to  form  ajust  conception  of  her 
person  and  mind  when  I  tell  you,  that  in  both 

H 


90  CLARA  HOWARD. 

respects,  she  is  exactly  what  her  mother  was 
at  her  age.  There  is  one  particular,  indeed, 
in  which  the  resemblance  is  most  striking.  She 
estimates  the  characters  of  others,  not  by  the 
specious  but  delusive  considerations  of  fortune 
or  birth,  but  by  the  intrinsic  qualities  of  heart 
and  head.  In  her  marriage  choice,  which  yet 
remains  to  be  made,  she  will  forget  ancestry 
and  patrimony,  and  think  only  of  the  morals  and 
understanding  of  the  object.  Hitherto,  her  af- 
fections have  been  wholly  free,  but".. .here  Mr. 
Hov/ard  fixed  his  eyes  with  much  intentness 
and  significance,  on  my  countenance..."  her  pa- 
rents will  neither  be  grieved  nor  surprised,  if, 
after  a  residence  of  some  time  under  the  same 
roof  with  her  brother  Edward,  she  should  no 
longer  be  able  to  boast  of  her  freedom  in  that 
respect.  If  ever  circumstances  should  arise 
to  put  my  sincerity  to  the  test,  you  shall  never 
find  me  backward  to  convince  you  that  I  prac- 
tise no  equivocations  and  reserves,  and  pre- 
scribe no  limitations  or  conditions,  when  I 
grant  you  the  privilege  of  calling  me  father. 

My  stay  with  you  at  present  must  be  short, 
I  am  now  going,  on  business  of  importance,  to 
Virginia.      I  shall  call  here  on  my  return. 


CLARA  HOWARD.  91 

which  I  expect  will  be  soon,  and  take  you  with 
me  to  New- York,  where  I  purpose  to  reside 
for  some  time.  The  interval  may  be  useful 
to  you,  in  settling  and  arranging  your  little 
matters,  and  equipping  yourself  for  your  jour- 
ney." 

Such,  my  friend,  was  the  result  of  this 
meeting  with  Mr.  Howard.  Every  thing  con- 
nected with  this  event,  was  so  abrupt  and 
unexpected,  that  my  mind  w^as  a  scene  of 
hurry  and  confusion^  till  his  departure,  next 
morning,  left  me  at  liberty  to  think  on  what 
had  past.  He  left  me  with  marks  of  the  most 
tender  affection,  with  particular  advice  in  what 
manner  to  adjust  my  affairs,  and  with  a  pro- 
mise of  acquainting  me  by  letter  with  all  his 
motions. 

I  waited  with  some  impatience  for  Mr. 
Howard's  return.  Many  things  had  dropped 
from  him,  in  our  short  interview,  on  which  I 
had  now  leisure  to  reflect.  His  views,  w^ith 
regard  to  me,  could  not  fail  to  delight  my 
youthful  fancy.  I  was  dazzled  and  enchanted 
by  the  prospect  which  he  set  before  me,  of 
entering  on  a  new  and  more  dignified  exist- 
ence, of  partakin^^  the  society  of  beings  like 


93  CLARA  HOWARD. 

Mrs.  Howard  and  her  daughter,  and  of  aiding 
him  in  the  promotion  of  great  and  useful  pur- 
poses. 

One  intimation,  however,  had  escaped  him, 
which  filled  me  with  anxious  meditations. 
The  young  Clara  was  the  companion  of  his 
voyage  hither.  She  had  landed  on  this  shore. 
To  her  presence  and  domestic  intercourse,  I 
was  about  to  be  introduced,  and  I  was  allowed 
to  solicit  her  love.  He  was  willing  to  bestow 
her  upon  me,  and  had,  without  doubt,  gained 
the  concurrence  of  her  mother  in  this  scheme. 
It  was  thus  that  he  meant  to  insure  the  feli- 
city, and  establish  the  fortune,  of  his  pupil. 

There  is  somewhat  in  the  advantages  of 
birth  and  rank,  in  the  habit  of  viewing  objects 
through  the  medium  of  books,  that  gives  a 
sacred  obscurity,  a  mysterious  elevation,  to 
human  beings.  I  had  been  familiar  with  the 
names  of  nobility  and  royalty,  but  the  things 
themselves  had  ever  been  shrouded  in  an  awe- 
creating  darkness.  Their  distance  had  like- 
wise produced  an  interval,  which  I  imagined 
impossible  for  me  to  overpass.  They  were 
objects  to  be  viewed,  like  the  divinity,  from 
gfar.     The  only  sentiments  which  they  could 


CLARA  HOWARD.  9S 

excite,  were  reverence  and  wonder.  That  I 
should  ever  pass  the  mound  which  separated 
my  residence,  and  my  condition,  from  theirs, 
was  utterly  incredible. 

The  ideas  annexed  to  the  term  peasant^  are 
wholly  inapplicable  to  the  tillers  of  ground  in 
America;  but  our  notions  are  the  offspring, 
more  of  the  books  we  read,  than  of  any  other 
of  our  external  circumstances.  O  ur  books  are 
almost  wholly  the  productions  of  Europe,  and 
the  prejudices  which  infect  us,  are  derived 
chiefly  from  this  source.  These  prejudices  may 
be  somewhat  rectified  by  age,  and  by  converse 
with  the  world,  but  they  flourish  in  full  vigour 
in  youthful  minds,  reared  in  seclusion  and  pri- 
vacy, and  undisciplined  by  intercourse  with 
various  classes  of  mankind.  In  me,  they  pos- 
sessed an  unusual  degree  of  strength.  My 
words  were  selected  and  defined  according  to 
foreign  usages,  and  my  notions  of  dignity 
were  modelled  on  a  scale,  which  the  revolution 
has  completely  taken  away.  I  could  never 
forget  that  my  condition  was  that  of  a  peasant, 
and  in  spite  of  reflection,  I  was  the  slave  of 
those  sentiments  of  self-contempt  and  humilia- 
tion, which  pertain  to  that  condition  else- 
n2 


94  CLARA  HOWARD. 

where,  though  chimerical  and  visionary  on  the 
western  side  of  the  Atlantic. 

My  ambition  of  dignity  and  fortune  grew 
out  of  this  supposed  inferiority  of  rank.  Ex- 
perience had  taught  me,  how  slender  are  the 
genuine  wants  of  an  human  being,  and  made 
me  estimate,  at  their  true  value,  the  blessings 
of  competence,  and  fixed  property.  Our  fears 
are  always  proportioned  to  our  hopes,  and 
what  is  ardently  desired,  appears,  when  placed 
within  our  reach,  to  be  an  illusion  designed 
to  torment  us.  We  are  inclined  to  question 
the  reality  of  that  which  our  foresight  had 
never  suggested  as  near,  though  our  wishes 
had  perpetually  hovered  around  it. 

When  the  death  of  Wilmot  put  his  sister 
in  possession  of  a  sum  of  money,  which,  when 
converted  into  land,  would  procure  her  and 
the  man  whom  her  affection  had  distinguished, 
a  domain  of  four  or  five  hundred  fertile  acres, 
my  emotions  I  cannot  describe.  Many  would 
be  less  affected  in  passing  from  a  fisherman's 
hovel,  to  the  throne  of  an  opulent  nation.  It  so 
much  surpassed  the  ordinary  bounds  of  my 
foresight,  and  even  of  my  wishes,  that,  for  a 
♦  imc,   I  was  fain  to  think  myself  in  one  of  my 


CLARA  HOWARD.  55 

usual  wakeful  dreams.  My  doubts  were 
dispelled  only  by  the  repetition  of  the  same 
impressions,  and  by  the  lapse  of  time.  I 
gradually  became  familiarized  to  the  change, 
and  by  frequently  revolving  its  benefits  and 
consequences,  raised  the  tenor  of  my  ordinary 
sensations  to  the  level,  as  it  were,  of  my  new 
condition. 

From  this  unwonted  height,  Morton's  re- 
appearance had  thrown  us  down  to  our  origi- 
nal obscurity.  But  now  my  old  preceptor  had 
started  up  before  me,  and,  like  my  go©d 
genius,  had  brought  with  him  gifts  immea- 
surable, and  surpassing  belief.  They  existed 
till  now  in  another  hemisphere ;  they  occupied 
an  elevation  in  the  social  scale,  to  which  I 
could  scarcely  raise  my  eyes ;  yet  they  were 
now  within  a  short  journey  of  my  dwelling. 
I  was  going  to  be  ushered  into  their  presence ; 
but  my  privilege  was  not  to  be  circumscribed 
by  any  sober  limits.  This  heiress  of  opulence 
and  splendour,  this  child  of  fortune,  and  ap- 
propriator  of  elegance  and  grace,  and  beauty, 
was  proffered  to  me  as  a  wife ! 

I  reflected  on  the  education  which  I  had 
received  from  Mr.  Howard;  his  affection  for 


96  CLARA  HOWARD. 

me,  which  had  been  unlimited ;  his  relation 
to  his  wife's  daughter,  and  the  authority  and 
respect... .which  that  relation,  as  well  as  his 
personal  qualities,  produced.  I  reflected  on 
the  futility  of  titular  distinction ;  on  the  capri- 
ciousness  of  wealth,  and  its  independance  of 
all  real  merit,  in  the  possessor,  but  still  I 
could  not  retain  but  for  a  moment,  the  confi- 
dence and  self-respect  which  flowed  from 
these  thoughts.  I  was  still  nothing  more  than 
an  obscure  clown,  whose  life  had  been  spent 
iiuthe  barn-yard  and  corn-field,  and  to  whose 
level,  it  was  impossible  for  a  being  qualified 
and  educated  like  Clara,  ever  to  descend. 

You  must  not  imagine,  however,  that  this 
descent  was  desired  by  me.  I  was  bound,  by 
every  tie  of  honour,  though  not  of  affection, 
to  Mary  Wilmot.  Incited  by  compassion  and 
by  gratitude,  I  had  plighted  my  vows  to  her, 
and  had  formed  no  wish  or  expectation  of 
revoking  them.  These  vows  were  to  be  com- 
pleted, in  a  few  months,  by  marriage  ;  but 
this  event,  by  the  unfortunate,  though  seasona- 
ble and  equitable  claim  of  Morton,  was  placed 
at  an  uncertain  distance.     Marriage,  while 


CLARA  HOWARD.  97 

both  of  us  were  poor,  would  be  an  act  of  the 
utmost  indiscretion. 

What,  however,  was  taken  away  by  Mor- 
ton, might,  I  fondly  conceived,  be  restored 
to  us  by  the  generosity  of  Mr.  Howard.  It 
was  not,  indeed,  perfectly  agreeable  to  the 
dictates  of  my  pride,  to  receive  fortune  as  the 
boon  of  any  one ;  but  I  had  always  been  ac- 
customed to  regard  Mr.  Howard  more  as  my 
father  than  teacher,  and  it  seemed  as  if  I  had 
a  natural  right  to  every  gift  which  was  need- 
ful to  my  happiness,  and  which  was  in  his 
power  to  bestov/. 

Mary  and  her  claims  on  me,  were  indeed, 
unknown  to  my  friend.  He  had  no  reason  to 
be  particularly  interested  in  her  fate  ;  and  her 
claims  interfered  with  those  schemes  which 
he  had  apparently  formed,  with  relation  to 
Clara  and  myself.  How,  I  asked,  might  he 
regard  her  claims?  In  what  light  would  he 
consider  that  engagement  of  the  understand- 
ing, rather  than  of  the  heart,  into  which  I  had 
entered?  How  far  would  he  esteem  it  proper 
to  adhere  to  it;  and  what  efforts  might  he 
make  to  dissolve  it  ? 


98  CLARA  HOWARD. 

Various  incidents  had  hindered  me  from 
thoroughly  explaining  to  him  my  situation, 
during  his  short  stay  at  Hatfield;  but  I  resolved 
to  seize  the  opportunity  of  our  next  meeting, 
and  by  a  frank  disclosure,  to  put  an  end  to  all 
my  doubts.  Meanwhile,  I  employed  the  in- 
terval of  his  absence,  in  giving  an  account  of 
all  these  events  to  Mary,  and  impatiently 
waited  the  arrival  of  a  letter.  The  period  of 
my  friend's  absence  was  nearly  expired,  and 
the  hourly  expectation  of  his  return  prevented 
me  from  visiting  Mary  in  person.  Instead 
of  his  coming,  however,  I  at  length  received 
a  letter  from  him  in  these  terms  : 


Richmond,  Nov.  11. 

I  SHALL  not  call  on  you  at  Hatfield.  I 
am  weary  of  traversing  hills  and  dales ;  and 
my  detention  in  Virginia  being  longer  than  I 
expected,  shall  go  on  board  a  vessel  in  this 
port,  bound  for  New- York.  Contract,  in  my 
name,  with  your  old  friend,  for  the  present 
accommodation  of  the    girls,  and  repair  to 


1 


CLARA  HOWARD.  99 

New- York  as  soon  as  possible.  Search  out 
No ,  Broadway.  If  I  am  not  there  to  em- 
brace you,  inquire  for  my  wife  or  niece,  and 
mention  your  name.^  Make  haste ;  the  women 
long  to  see  a  youth  in  whose  education  I  had 
so  large  a  share ;  and  be  sure,  by  your  deport- 
ment, not  to  discredit  your  instructor,  and 
belie  my  good  report. 

Howard, 

Being,  by  this  letter,  relieved  from  the 
necessity  of  staying  longer  at  Hatfield,  I  pre- 
pared to  visit  my  friend  at  Abingdon.  Some 
six  or  seven  days  had  elapsed  since  my  mes- 
senger had  left  with  her  my  last  letter,  and  I 
had  not  since  heard  from  her.  I  had  been 
enjoined  to  repair  to  New- York  with  expedi- 
tion, but  I  could  not  omit  the  present  occa- 
sion of  an  interview  with  Mary,  Morton's 
claim  would  produce  an  essential  change  in 
her  condition,  and  I  was  desirous  of  discuss- 
ing with  her  the  validity  of  this  claim,  and  the 
consequences  of  admitting  it. 

I  had  not  seen  Morton  since  his  first  visit. 
I  now,  in  my  way  to  Abingdon,  called  at  his 
father's  house. 


100  CLARA  HOWARD. 

The  old  man  appeared  at  the  door.  His 
son  had  visited  and  stayed  with  him  a  few 
days,  but  had  afterwards  returned  to  the  city. 
He  had  gone  thither  to  settle  some  affairs, 
and  had  promised  to  come  back  in  a  few 
weeks.  He  knew  not  in  what  affairs  he  was 
engaged  ;  could  not  tell  how  far  he  had  suc- 
ceeded, or  whereabout  in  the  city  he  resided. 

I  proceeded  to  Abingdon,  not  without 
some  expectation  of  Morton's  having  already 
accomplished  his  wishes,  and  persuaded  my 
friend  to  refund  the  money  ;  and  yet,  in  a  case 
of  such  importance,  I  could  ncrt  easily  believe 
that  my  concurrence,  or  at  least,  advice, 
would  be  dispensed  with. 

I  went  to  her  lodgings  as  soon  as  I  arrived. 
I  had  procured  her  a  pleasant  abode,  at  the 
house  of  a  lady  who  was  nearly  allied  to  my 
uncle,  and  where  the  benefits  of  decent  and 
affectionate  society  could  be  enjoyed  without 
leaving  her  apartments.  Mrs.  Bordley  w'as 
apprized  of  the  connection  which  subsisted 
between  her  inmate  and  me,  and  had  con- 
tracted and  expressed  much  affection  for  her 
guest.  On  inquiring  for  miss  Wilmot,  of  her 
hostess,  she  betrayed  some  surprise. 


CLARA  HOWARD.  101 

Mary  Wilmot?  she  answered,  that  is  a 
strange  question  from  you:  surely  you  know 
she  is  not  here. 

Not  here  ?  cryed  I,  somewhat  startled ; 
what  has  become  of  her? 

You  do  not  know  then  that  she  has  left  us 
for  good  and  all  ? 

No,  indeed ;  not  a  syllable  of  any  such 
design  has  reached  me ;  but  whither  has  she 
gone  ? 

That  is  more  than  I  can  say.  If  you  arc 
uninformed  on  that  head,  it  cannot  be  ex- 
pected that  I  should  be  in  the  secret.  I  only 
know,  that  three  days  ago  she  told  me  of  her 
intention  to  change  her  lodgings,  and  she  did  so 
accordingly,  yesterday  morning,  at  sun  rise. 

But  what  was  her  motive  ?  What  cause  of 
dislike  did  she  express  to  this  house  ?  I  ex- 
pected she  would  remain  here,  till  she  changed 
it  for  an  house  of  her  own. 

Why  indeed  that  may  be  actually  the  case 
now,  for  she  went  away  with  a  very  spruce 
young  gentleman,  in  his  chaise ;  but  that  can- 
not be.  Poor  creature !  She  was  in  no  state  for 
so  joyous  a  thing  as  matrimony.  She  was 
very  feeble;  nay,  she  was  quite  ill:  she  had 


102  CLARA  HOWARD. 

scarcely  left  her  bed  during  five  days  before, 
and  with  difficulty  got  out  of  it,  and  dressed 
herself,  when  the  chaise  called  for  her.  She 
would  eat  nothing,  notwithstanding  all  my 
persuasion,  and  the  pains  I  took  to  prepare 
some  light  nice  thing,  such  as  a  weak  stomach 
could  bear.  When  she  told  me  she  meant 
to  leave  my  house,  I  was  as  much  surprised 
as  you,  and  inquired  what  had  offended  or 
displeased  her  in  my  behaviour.  She  assured 
me  that  she  had  been  entirely  satisfied,  and 
that  her  motives  for  leaving  me  had  no  con- 
nection with  my  deportment.  There  was  a 
necessity  for  going,  though  she  could  not  ex- 
plain to  me  what  it  was.  I  ventured  to  ask 
where  she  designed  to  go,  but  she  avoided 
answering  me  for  some  time  ;  and  when  I 
repeated  the  question,  she  said,  she  could  not 
describe  her  new  lodgings.  She  knew  not  in 
what  spot  she  was  destined  to  take  up  her  rest, 
and  confessed,  that  there  were  the  most  cogent 
reasons  for  her  silence  on  that  head.  I  men- 
tioned the  coldness  of  the  weather,  and  her 
own  ill-health,  but  she  answered,  that  no 
option  had  been  left  her,  and  that  she  must  go,  if 
Y/era  even  necessary  to  carry  her  from  her 


I 


CLARA  HOWARD.  103 

bed  to  the  carriage.  All  this,  as  you  may  well 
suppose,  was  strange,  and  I  renewed  my 
questions  and  intreaties,  but  she  gave  me  no 
satisfaction,  and  persisted  in  her  resolutions. 
Accordingly,  on  Thursday  morning,  a  chaise 
stopped  at  the  door,  took  her  in,  with  a  small 
trunk,  and  hastened  away. 

I  was  confounded  and  perplexed  at  this 
tale.  No  event  was  less  expected  than  this. 
No  intimation  had«  even  been  dropped  by 
Mary,  that  created  the  least  suspicion  of  this 
design.  She  had  left,  as  Mrs.  Bordley  pro- 
ceeded to  inform  me,  all  her  furniture,  with- 
out direction  te  whom,  or  in  what  manner  to 
dispose  of  it,  and  yet  had  said,  that  she  never 
designed  to  return.  I'he  gentleman  with 
whom  she  departed,  was  unknown  to  Mrs. 
Bordley,  and  had  stopt  so  short  a  time  as  not 
to  suiFer  her  to  obtain,  by  remarks  or  inter- 
rogatories, any  gratification  of  her  curiosity. 

Having  ineffectually  put  a  score  of  ques- 
tions to  Mrs.  Bordley,  I  entered  the  deserted 
apartments.  The  keys  of  closets  and  drawers 
no  where  appeared,  though  the  furniture  was 
arranged  as  u«ual.  Inquiring  of  my  com- 
panion for  these,  Ay,  said  she,  I  had  almost 


t04  CLARA  HOWARD. 

forgotten.  The  last  thing  she  said  before  the 
chair  left  the  door,  holding  out  a  bunch  of 
keys  to  me,  was,  Give  these  to.. ..there  her 
voice  faultered,  and  I  observed  the  tears  flow. 
I  received  the  keys,  and  though  she  went 
awJiy  without  ending  her  sentence,  I  took 
for  granted  it  was  you  she  meant. 

I  eagerly  seized  the  keys,  and  hoped,  by 
their  assistance,  to  find  a  clue  to  this  labyrinth. 
I  opened  the  closets  and  drawers  and  turned 
over  their  contents,  but  found  no  paper  which 
would  give  me  the  intelligence  I  wanted.  No 
script  of  any  kind  appeared;  nothing  but  a 
few  napkins  and  sheets,  and  the  like  cumbrous 
furniture.  A  writing-desk  stood  near  the 
wall,  but  blank  paper,  wafers,  and  quills,  were 
all  that  it  contained.  I  desisted,  at  length, 
from  my  unprofitable  labour,  and  once  more 
renewed  my  inquiries  of  Mrs.  Bordley. 

She  described  the  dress  and  form  of  the 
young  man  who  attended  the  fugitive.  I 
could  not  at  first  recognize  in  her  description 
any  one  whom  I  knew.  His  appearance  be- 
spoke him  to  be  a  citizen,  and  he  seemed  to 
have  arrived  from  the  city,  as  well  as  to  return 
thither.  She  dwelt  with  particular  emphasis  on 


CLARA  HOWARD.  105 

the  graces  of  the  youth,  and  frequently  insinu- 
ated that  a  new  gallant  had  supplanted  the  old. 

For  some  time,  I  was  deaf  to  these  sur- 
mises ;  but,  at  length,  they  insensibly  revived 
in  my  fancy,  and  acquired  strength.  I  began 
to  account  for  appearances  so  as  to  justify 
my  suspicion.  She  had  not  informed  me  of 
her  motions  ;  but  that  might  arise  from  com- 
punction and  shame.  There  might  even  be 
something  illicit  in  this  new  connection,  to 
which  necessity  might  have  impelled  her. 
The  claims  of  Morton  were  made  known  to 
her  by  me,  but  possibly  they  had  been  pre- 
viously imparted  by  himself.  To  shun  that 
poverty  to  which  this  discovery  would  again 
reduce  her,  she  listened  to  the  offers  of  one, 
whose  opulence  was  able  to  relieve  her  wants. 

The  notion  that  her  conduct  was  culpable, 
vanished  in  a  moment,  and  I  abhorred  myself 
for  harbouring  it.  I  remembered  all  the 
proofs  of  a  pure  and  exalted  mind,  impatient 
of  contempt  and  poverty,  but  shrinking  with 
infinitely  more  reluctance  from  vice  and  turpi- 
tude, which  she  had  given.  I  called  to  mind 
her  treatment  of  a  man,  by  name,  Sedley,  who 
had  formerlv  solicited  her  love,  and  this  re- 
i2 


106  CLARA  HOWARD. 

membrance  gave  birth  to  a  new  conjecture 
which  subsequent  reflection  only  tended  to 
confirm. 

Sedley  had  contracted  a  passion  for  Mary 
six  or  eight  years  ago.  He  was  a  man  of  ex- 
cellent morals,  and  heir  to  a  great  fortune. 
He  had  patrimony  in  his  own  possession,  and 
had  much  to  hope  for  from  his  parents.  These 
parents  hated  and  reviled  the  object  of  their 
son's  affections  merely  because  she  was  poor, 
and  their  happiness  seemed  to  depend  on  his 
renouncing  her.  To  this  he  would  never  con- 
sent, and  Mary  might  long  ago  have  removed 
all  the  evils  of  her  situation,  had  she  been  wil- 
ling to  accept  Sedley's  offers  ;  but  though  she 
had  the  highest  esteem  for  his  virtues,  and 
gratitude  for  his  preference,  her  heart  was 
anothers.  Besides,  her  notions  of  duty,  were 
unusually  scrupulous.  Her  poverty  had  only 
made  her  more  watchful  against  any  en- 
croachments on  her  dignity,  and  she  disdained 
to  enter  a  family  who  thought  themselves 
degfraded  by  her  alliance. 

Sedley  was  a  vehement  spirit.  Opposition 
whetted,  rather  than  blunted  his  zeal ;  and 
Mary's  conduct,  while  it  heightened  his  admi- 


J 


CLARA  HOWARD.  lor 

ration  and  respect,  gave  new  edge  to  his  de- 
sires. The  youth  whom  she  loved  did  not 
admit  a  mutual  affection,  and  his  poverty- 
would  have  set  marriage  at  an  hopeless  dis- 
tance, even  if  it  had  been  conceived.  Sedley, 
therefore,  believed  himself  the  only  one  capa- 
ble of  truly  promoting  her  happiness,  and  per- 
sisted in  courting  her  favour  longer  and  with 
more  constancy  than  might  have  been  expect- 
ed from  his  ardent  feelings  and  versatile  age. 

I  need  not  repeat  that  Mary's  affections 
were  mine.  To  Sedley,  therefore,  I  was  the 
object  of  aversion  and  fear,  and  there  never 
took  place  between  us  intercourse  sufficient  to 
subdue  his  prejudices.  After  her  brother's 
death,  marriage  was  resolved  upon  between 
us,  and  Sedley  at  length  slackened  the  ardour 
of  his  pursuit.  Still,  however,  he  would  not 
abjure  her  society. 

Some  secret  revolution,  perhaps,  had  been 
wrought  in  the  mind  of  my  friend.  Her  con- 
sent to  marriage,  had  been  extorted  by  me, 
for  she  was  almost  equally  averse  to  marriage 
with  one  by  whom  she  was  not  loved  with 
that  warmth  which  she  thought  her  due,  as 
with  one  who  possessed  every^  title  to  prefer- 


108  CLARA  HOWARD. 

ence  but  her  love.  These  scruples  had  been 
laid  aside  in  consideration  of  the  benefit  which 
her  brother's  death,  by  giving  her  property, 
enabled  her  to  confer  upon  me  who  was  desti- 
tute. This  benefit  it  was  no  longer  in  her 
power  to  confer.  She  would  consider  herself 
as  severed  from  me  forever,  and  in  this  state 
a  renewal  of  Sedley's  importunities,  might 
subdue  her  reluctance.  On  comparing  Mrs. 
Bordley's  description  of  the  voice,  features, 
garb,  and  carriage  of  Mary's  attendant,  with 
those  of  Sedley,  I  fancied  I  discovered  a 
strong  resemblance  between  them.  Some 
other  coincidences,  which  came  to  light  in 
the  course  of  the  day,  made  me  certain  as  to 
the  person  of  her  companion.  It  was  Sedley 
himself. 

I  was  willing  to  gain  all  the  knowledge  of 
this  affair  which  was  within  reach.  Sedley's 
usual  place  of  abode  was  his  father's  house  ia 
Virginia,  but  he  chiefly  passed  his  time  in  Phi- 
ladelphia, where  he  resided  with  his  sister, 
who  was  a  lady  of  great  merit,  and  left,  by  her 
husband's  death,  in  opulent  circumstances. 
This  lady  had  made  frequent  overtures  of 
friendship  to  Mary,  but  these  had,  for  the  most 


CLARA  HOWARD.  109 

part,  been  declined.  This  reserve  was  not 
wholly  free  from  pride.  A  mistaken  sensi- 
bility made  her  shun  those  occasions  for  con- 
tempt or  insult  which  might  occur  in  her  inter- 
course with  the  rich.  The  relation  in  which 
she  stood  to  Sedley  was  another  impediment. 
A  just  regard  for  his  happiness  compelled  her 
to  exclude  herself  as  much  as  possible  from  his 
company.  The  kindness  of  Mrs.  Valentine 
had  not  been  diverted  by  these  scruples  and 
reserves,  and  some  intercourse  had  taken  place 
between  them  before  Mary's  retirement  to 
Abingdon. 

This  change  of  views  in  my  friend  had 
given  me  much  disquiet,  but  some  reflection 
convinced  me  that  it  was  a  cause  of  rejoicing 
rather  than  regret.  Wedlock  had  been  desired 
by  me,  more  from  zeal  for  the  happiness  of  an- 
other, than  for  my  own.  I  had  lamented  that 
destiny  which  made  the  affections  of  three  per- 
sons merely  the  instruments  of  their  misery, 
and  had  exerted  my  influence  to  give  a  new 
direction  to  my  friend's  passions.  This  under- 
taking was  no  less  delicate  than  arduous,  and 
no  wonder,  that  in  hands  so  unskilful  as  mine, 
the  attempt  should  fail.     I  could  not  be  much 


110  CLARA  HOWARD. 

displeased  that  this  end  was  effected,  though' 
I  was  somewhat  mortified  on  finding  that  she 
did  not  deem  me  worthy  of  being  apprized  of 
her  schemes.  I  reflected,  however,  that  this 
information  might  only  be  delayed  ;  and  ima- 
gined a  thousand  plausible  reasons  which  might 
induce  her  to  postpone  intelligence  so  unex- 
pected, if  not  disagreeable  to  me. 

Next  morning  I  repaired  to  the  city,  and 
to  Mrs.  Valentine's  house.  I  inquired  of  a 
female  servant  for  Miss  Wilmot,  but  was  told 
that  she  had  been  there,  a  few  hours,  on  the 
preceding  Thursday,  and  had  then  gone,  in 
company  with  her  mistress  and  Mr.  Sedley, 
to  New-York.  No  time  had  been  fixed  for 
their  return,  but  Mrs.  Valentine  had  said  that 
her  absence  might  last  for  six  or  eight  months. 
The  steward,  who  might  afford  me  more  infor- 
mation, was  out  of  town. 

Thus  my  conjectures  were  confirmed  ;  and 
having  no  reason  for  further  delay,  I  immedi- 
ately set  out  in  the  same  road.  My  thoughts, 
disembarrassed  from  all  engagements  with 
Mary,  persuaded  of  her  union  with  Sedley, 
and  convinced  that  this  union  would  more  pro- 
mote her  happiness  than  any  other  event,  I 


CLARA  HO WARb.  1 1 1 

returned  without  reluctance  to  Clara  Howard. 
I  was  impatient  to  compare  those  vague  and 
glittering  conceptions  which  hovered  in  my 
fancy,  with  the  truth  ;  therefore  adopted  the 
swiftest  conveyance,  and  arrived,  in  the  even- 
ing of  the  same  day,  at  Powle's  Hook  ferry. 

My  excursions  had  hitherto  been  short  and 
rare,  and  the  stage  on  which  I  was  now  enter- 
ing, abounded  with  novelty  and  grandeur. 
The  second  city  in  our  country  was  familiar  to 
my  fancy  by  description,  but  my  ideas  were 
disjointed  and  crude,  and  my  attention  was 
busy  in  searching,  in  the  objects  which  pre- 
sented themselves,  for  similitudes  which  were 
seldom  to  be  met  with.  A  sort  of  tremulous, 
but  pleasing  astonishment,  overwhelmed  me, 
while  I  gazed  through  the  twilight,  on  the 
river  and  the  city  on  the  further  shore.  My 
sensations  of  solemn  and  glowing  expectation 
chiefly  flowed  from  the  foresight  of  the  cir- 
cumstances in  which  1  was  preparing  to  place 
myself. 

Men  exist  more  for  the  future  than  the  pre- 
sent. Our  being  is  never  so  intense  and  vivid, 
if  I  may  so  speak,  as  when  we  are  on  the  eve 
of  some  anticipated  revolution,  momentous  to 


112  CLARA  HOWARD. 

our  happiness.  Our  attention  is  attracted  b^ 
every  incident  that  brings  us  nearer  to  the 
change,  and  we  are  busy  in  marking  the  agree- 
ment between  objects  as  they  rise  before  us, 
and  our  previous  imaginations.  Thus  it  was 
with  me.  My  palpitations  increased  as  I  drew 
near  the  house  to  which  I  had  been  directed, 
and  I  could  scarcely  govern  my  emotions  suf- 
ficiently to  inquire  of  the  servant  who  appear- 
ed to  my  summons,  for  Mrs.  Howard. 

I  was  ushered  into  a  lighted  parlour,  and 
presently  a  lady  entered.  She  bore  no  marks 
ofhaving  passed  the  middle  age,  and  her  coun- 
tenance exhibited  the  union  of  fortitude  and 
sweetness.  Her  air  was  full  of  dignity  and 
condescension.  Methought  I  wanted  no  other 
assurance  but  that  which  the  sight  of  her  con- 
vejed,  that  this  was  the  wife  of  my  friend. 

I  was  thrown,  by  her  entrance,  into  some 
confusion,  and  was  at  a  loss  in  what  manner 
to  announce  myself.  The  moment  she  caught 
a  distinct  glance  of  my  figure,  her  features  ex- 
panded into  a  smile,  and  offering  her  hand, 
she  exclaimed.. ..Ahah!  This,  without  doubt, 
is  the  young  friend  whom  we  have  so  anxiously 
looked  for.     Your  name  is  Edward  Hartley, 


CLARA  HOWARD.  113 

and  as  such  I  welcome  you,  with  the  tender- 
ness of  a  mother,  to  this  home.  Turning  to 
a  servant  who  followed  her,  she  continued,  call 
Clara  hither.  Tell  her  that  a  friend  has  ar- 
rived. 

Before  I  had  time  to  comment  on  this  abrupt 
reception,  the  door  was  again  opened.  A 
nymph,  robed  with  the  most  graceful  simplicity, 
entered,  and  advancing  towards  me,  offered 
me  her  hand.. ..Here,  said  the  elder  lady,  is 
the  son  and  brother  whom  Mr.  Howard  pro- 
mised to  procure  for  us.  Welcome  him,  my 
girl,  as  such. 

Lifting  her  eyes  from  the  floor,  and  casting 
on  me  bashful  but  affectionate  looks,  the  young 
lady  said,  in  an  half-whisper,  he  is  truly  wel- 
come...and  again  offered  the  hand  which,  con- 
founded and  embarrassed  as  I  at  first  was,  I 
had  declined  to  accept.  Now,  however,  I  v»  as 
less  backward. 

An  unaffected  and  sprightly  conversation 
followed,  that  tended  to  banish  those  timidities 
which  were  too  apparent  in  my  deportment. 
IVIrs.  Howard  entered  into  a  gay  and  almost 
humorous  description  of  my  person,  such  as 
she  had  received  before  mv  arrival,  and  re- 


lU  CLARA  HOWARD. 

marked  the  differences  between  the  picture 
and  the  original,  intermingling  questions, 
which,  compelling  me  to  open  my  lips  in  an- 
swer to  them,  helped  me  to  get  rid  of  my 
aukwardness.  Presently  supper  was  prepared, 
and  dispatched  with  the  utmost  cheerfulness. 
My  astonishment  and  rapture  were  un* 
speakable.  Such  condescension  and  familiarity, 
surpassing  all  my  fondest  imaginations,  from 
beings  invested  with  such  dazzling  superiority, 
almost  intoxicated  my  senses.  My  answers 
were  disadvantageous  to  myself,  for  they  were 
made  in  such  a  tumult  and  delirium  of  emo- 
tions, that  they  could  not  fail  of  being  incohe- 
rent or  silly. 

Gradually  these  raptures  subsided,  and  I 
acted  and  spoke  with  more  sobriety  and  con- 
fidence. I  had  leisure  also  to  survey  the  fea- 
tures of  my  friends.  Seated  at  opposite  sides 
of  the  table,  with  lights  above  and  around  us, 
every  lineament  and  gesture  were  distinctly 
seen.  It  was  difHcult  to  say  which  person  was 
the  most  lovely.  The  bloom  and  glossiness 
of  youth  had,  indeed,  disappeared  in  the  elder, 
but  the  ruddy  tints  and  the  smoothness  of 
heaUh,  joined  to  the  most  pathetic  and  intelli- 


CLARA  HOWARD.  11., 

gent  expression,  set  the  mother  on  a  level,  even 
in  personal  attractions,  with  the  daughter.  No 
music  was  ever  more  thrilling  than  the  tones 
of  Clara.  They  sunk,  deeply,  into  my  heart, 
while  her  eyes,  casually  turned  on  me,  and 
beaming  with  complacency,  contributed  still 
more  to  enchant  me. 

In  a  few  days,  the  effects  of  novelty  gradu- 
ally disappearing,  I  began  to  find  myself  at 
home.  Mr.  Howard's  arrival,  and  the  cordi- 
ality of  his  behaviour,  contributed  still  more 
to  place  me  at  ease.  'I'hose  employments  he 
designed  for  me,  now  occurred.  They  gene- 
rally engrossed  the  half  of  each  day.  They 
were  light,  dispatched  without  toil,  or  anxiety, 
and  conduced,  in  innumerable  ways,  to  my 
pleasure  and  improvement.  They  introduced 
me  to  men  of  different  professions  and  cha- 
racters, called  forth  my  ingenuity  and  know- 
ledge, and  supplied  powerful  incitements  to 
new  studies  and  inquiries. 

At  noon,  the  day's  business  was  usually 
dismissed,  axd  the  afternoon  and  evening  were 
devoted  to  intellectual  and  social  occupations. 
These  were  generally  partaken  by  the  ladies, 
and  visits  were  received  and  paid  so  rarely,  as 


116  CLARA  HOWARD. 

to  form  no  interruption  to  domestic  pleasures* 
Collected  round  the  fire,  and  busied  in  music' 
or  books,  or  discourse,  the  hours  flew  away 
with  unheeded  rapidity.  The  contrast  which 
this  scene  bore  to  my  past  life,  perpetually  re- 
curred to  my  reflections,  and  added  new  and 
inexpressible  charms  to  that  security  and  ele* 
gance  by  which  I  was  at  present  surrounded. 

Clara  was  the  companion  of  my  serious 
and  my  sportive  hours.  I  found,  in  her  cha- 
racter, simplicity  and  tenderness,  united  to 
powerful  intellects.  The  name  of  children 
was  often  conferred  upon  us  by  my  friend  and 
his  wife  ;  all  advances  to  familiarity  and  con- 
fidence between  us  were  encouraged  ;  our  little 
plans  of  walking  or  studying  together  were 
sanctioned  by  smiles  of  approbation,  and  their 
happiness  was  evidently  imperfect  while  ours 
was  suspended  or  postponed. 

In  this  intercourse,  there  was  nothing  to 
hinder  the  growth  of  that  sentiment,  which  is 
so  congenial  with  virtuous  and  youthful  bo- 
soms. My  chief  delight  was  in  sharing  the 
society  and  performing  office'?  of  kindness  for 
Clara,  and  this  delight  the  frankness  of  her 
nature  readily  shewed  to  be  mutual.     Love 


CLARA  HOWARD.  \\7 

was  not  avowed  or  solicited,  and  did  not  fre- 
quently recur,  in  an  undisguised  shape,  to  my 
thoughts.  My  desires  seemed  to  be  limited 
to  her  presence,  and  to  participating  her  occu- 
pations and  amusements.  Satisfied  in  like 
manner  with  this,  no  marks  of  impatience  or 
anxiety  were  ever  betrayed  by  her,  but  in  my 
absence. 

The  fulness  of  content  which  I  now  expe- 
rienced, did  not  totally  exclude  the  remem- 
brance of  Mary.  I  had  heard  and  seen  nothing 
of  Morton  since  my  departure  from  Hatfield. 
The  only  way  of  accounting  for  this,  was  to 
suppose  that  Mary  and  he  had  met,  and  that 
the  former,  persuaded  of  the  equity  of  his 
claim,  had  resigned  to  him  the  money  which 
he  had  remitted  to  her  brother. 

The  silence  which  she  had  observed,  in- 
volved me  in  the  deepest  perplexity.  I  spared 
no  pains  to  discover  Mrs.  Valentine's  resi- 
dence, but  my  pains  were  fruitless.  My  in- 
quiries rendered  it  certain  that,  at  least,  no 
such  person  resided  in  New- York. 

Thus  occupied,  the  winter  passed  away. 

On  a  mild,  but  blustering  evening  in  March, 

I  happened  to  be  walking,  in  company  with 
k2 


118  CLARA  HOWARD. 

Clara,  on  the  battery.  I  chanced,  after  some 
time,  to  spy  before  me,  coming  in  an  opposite 
direction,  the  man  whose  fate  had  engaged  so 
much  of  my  attention.  It  was  Morton  himself. 
On  seeing  me,  he  betrayed  much  satisfaction, 
but  no  surprise.  We  greeted  each  other  affec- 
tionately. Observing  that  he  eyed  my  compa- 
nion with  particular  earnestness,  I  introduced 
him  to  her. 

This  meeting  was  highly  desirable,  as  I 
hoped  to  collect  from  it  an  explication  of  what 
liad  hitherto  been  a  source  of  perplexity.  I 
likev/ise  marked  a  cheerfulnes  in  my  friend's 
deportment,  which  shewed  that  some  favoura- 
ble change  had  taken  place.  He  seemed  no 
less  anxious  than  I  for  a  confidential  interview ; 
and  an  appointment  of  a  meeting  on  the  same 
evening  was  accordingly  made. 

Having  conducted  Clara  home,  I  hastened 
to  the  place  appointed.  I  was  forthwith  usher- 
ed into  a  parlour,  where  Morton  was  found  in 
company  with  a  lady  of  graceful  and  pensive 
mein,  v/ith  a  smiling  babe  in  her  arms,  to  whom 
he  introduced  me  as  to  his  wife.  This  inci- 
dent confirmed  my  favourable  prognostics,  and 
I  waited,  with  impatience,  till  the  lady's  de- 


CLARA  HOWARD.  119 

parture  removed  all  constraint  from  our  con- 
versation. 

In  a  short  time,  she  left  us  alone.  I  con- 
gratulate you,  said  I,  on  your  reunion  with 
your  family,  but  cannot  help  expressing  my  sur- 
prise that  you  never  favoured  me  with  a  second 
visit,  or  gave  me  any  intelligence  of  your  good 
fortune. 

He  apologized  for  his  neglect,  by  saying, 
that  the  arrival  of  his  wife  and  daughter,  in 
New- York,  obliged  him,  shortly  after  our  in- 
terview, to  hasten  to  this  city,  v/here  success- 
ive engagements  had  detained  him  till  now. 
He  was,  nevertheless,  extremely  desirous  of  a 
meeting,  and  intended,  as  soon  as  pleasant 
weather  should  return,  to  go  to  Hatfield,  on 
purpose  to  see  me.  This  meeting,  however, 
had  fortunately  occurred  to  preclude  the  ne- 
cessity of  that  journey.  He  then  inquired 
into  the  health  of  miss  Wilmot,  and  her  pre- 
sent situation.  I  was  anxious  to  see  her,  he 
continued,  on  account  of  that  affair,  on  which 
we  conversed  at  our  last  meeting.  As  her 
brother's  friend,  I  was,  likewise,  desirous  of 
seeing  her,  and  tendering  her  any  service  in 
my  power,  but  v»'hen  taking  measures  to  bring 


130  CLARA  HOWARD. 

about  an  interview,  I  received  a  letter  from 
my  wife,  who,  to  my  infinite  surprise  and  sa- 
tisfaction, had  embarked  lor  America,  and 
arrived  safely  at  New- York.  My  eagerness 
to  see  my  family,  made  me  postpone  this  inter- 
view for  the  present,  and  one  engagement  has 
since  so  rapidly  succeeded  another,  that  I  have 
never  been  at  leisure  to  execute  this  design. 

What,  said  I,  has  no  meeting  taken  place 
between  Mary  Wilmot  and  you  ?  Has  she  not 
restored  the  money  you  claimed? 

Surely,  replied  he,  you  cannot  be  ignorant 
that  I  have  never  received  it.  I  doubted  whe- 
ther I  ought  to  receive  it,  even  if  my  title  were 
good.  It  was  chiefly  to  become  acquainted 
with  her,  that  I  looked  for  her,  and  my  good 
fortune  has  since  enabled  me  to  dispense  with 
any  thing  else.  The  property,  left  by  her  bro- 
ther, may  rightfully  belong  to  her,  notwith- 
standing present  appearances.  At  any  rate, 
her  possession  shall  be  unmolested  by  me. 

He  then  proceeded  to  inform  me,  that  his 
wife's  parents  being  deceived  by  his  long  si- 
lence, and  the  intelligence  of  his  shipwreck, 
into  the  opinion  of  his  death,  had  relented,  and 
settled  an  independent  and  liberal  pension  on 


CLARA  HOWARD.  121 

their  daughter,  on  condition  of  her  chusing 
some  abode  at  a  distance  from  them.  She 
proposed  to  retire,  with  her  child,  to  some 
neat  and  rural  abode  in  Cornwall,  and  was  on 
the  point  of  executing  this  design,  when  letters 
were  received  from  her  husband,  at  Algiers, 
which  assured  her  of  his  safety,  and  requested 
her  to  embark  for  America,  where  it  was  his 
intention  to  meet  her.  She  had  instantly 
changed  her  plans,  and  selling  her  annuity  on 
good  terms,  had  transported  herself  and  her 
property  to  New-York,  where  her  husband  be- 
ing apprised  of  her  arrival,  hastened  to  join 
her. 

Thus,  continued  Morton,  you  have,  in  my 
destiny,  a  striking  instance  of  the  folly  of  de- 
spair. My  shipwreck,  and  my  long  absence, 
in  circumstances  which  hindered  all  inter- 
course between  me  and  my  family,  were  the 
most  propitious  events  that  could  have  hap- 
pened. Nothing  but  the  belief  of  my  death, 
and  the  consequent  distresses  of  my  wife, 
could  have  softened  the  animosity  of  her  pa- 
rents. Her  disobedience,  they  thought,  had 
been  amply  punished,  and  fate  having  taken 
from  me,  the  power  of  receiving  any  advan- 


122  CLARA  HOWARD. 

tage  from  their  gift,  they  consented  to  make 
her  future  life  secure,  at  least,  from  want. 

It  was  also  lucky,  that  their  returning 
affection  stopped  just  where  it  did.  Their  re- 
sentment was  still  so  powerful  as  to  make 
them  refuse  to  see  her,  and  to  annex  to  their 
gift,  the  stern  condition  of  residing  at  a  dis- 
tance from  them.  Hence  she  was  enabled  to 
embark  for  America,  without  detecting  the'it 
mistake,  as  to  my  death.  They  carefully  shut 
their  ears  against  all  intelligence  of  her  con- 
dition, whether  direct  or  indirect,  and  will 
probably  pass  their  lives  in  ignorance  of  that, 
which,  if  known,  would  only  revive  their  up- 
braidings  and  regrets. 

I  am  not  sorry  for  the  hardships  I  have 
indured.  They  are  not  unpleasing  to  remem- 
brance, and  serve  to  brighten  and  endear  the 
enjoyments  of  my  present  state,  by  contrast 
with  former  sufferings.  1  have  enough  for  the 
kind  of  life  which  I  prefer  to  all  others,  and 
have  no  desire  to  enlarge  my  stock.  Mean- 
while, I  am  anxious  for  the  welfare  of  miss  Wil- 
mot,  and  shall  rejoice  in  having  been,  though 
undesignedly,  the  means  of  her  prosperity. 


CLARA  HOWARD.  123 

I  heard,  in  Philadelphia,  that  a  marriage 
was  on  foot  between  her  and  you.  I  flattered 
myself,  when  I  met  you  this  evening,  that 
your  companion  wa^  she,  and  secretly  congra- 
tulated you  on  the  possession  of  so  much 
gi'acefulness  and  beauty.  In  this,  it  seems,  I 
was  partly  mistaken.  This  is  a  person  very 
different  from  Mary  Wilmot ;  but  a  friend, 
whom  I  met,  shordy  after  parting  from  you, 
and  to  whom  I  described  her,  assured  me  that 
this  was  the  object  of  your  choice.  Pray,  what 
has  become  of  miss  Wilmot  ? 

I  frankly  confessed  to  him,  my  ignorance 
of  her  condition,  and  related  what  had  form- 
erly been  the  relation  between  her  and  us.  I 
expressed  my  surprise  at  finding  that  she  was 
still  in  possession  of  the  money,  after  the  repre- 
sentations I  had  made;  and  at  the  silence  she 
had  so  long  observed. 

When  I  recollected  in  what  manner,  and  in 
whose  company,  she  had  left  Abingdon,  I 
could  not  shut  out  some  doubts,  as  to  her  in- 
tegrity. She  was,  indeed,  mistress  of  her  own 
actions,  and  Sedley  was  not  unworthy  of  her 
choice  i  but  her  neglect  of  my  letter,  and  her 
keeping  this  money,  were  suspicious  accom- 


124  CLARA  HOWARD. 

panyments.  This  belief  was  too  painful,  to 
attain  my  ready  acquiescence,  and  I  occasion- 
ally consoled  myself,  by  imagining  her  con^ 
duct  to  proceed  from  some  misapprehension, 
on  the  one  or  other  part.  Mrs.  Valentine's 
reputation  was  unspotted,  and  under  her  guar- 
dianship, it  was  scarcely  possible  for  any  injury 
to  approach  my  friend's  person  or  morals. 

My  anxiety  to  discover  the  truth,  was  now 
increased.  After  being  so  long  accustomed 
to  partake  her  cares,  and  watch  over  her  safety, 
I  could  not  endure  this  profound  ignorance. 
I  was  even  uncertain,  as  to  her  existence.  It 
was  impossible,  but  that  my  friendship  would 
be  of  some  benefit.  My  sympathy  could  not 
fail  to  alleviate  her  sorrow,  or  enhance  her 
prosperity. 

But  what  means  had  I  of  removing  this 
painful  oivscurity.  I  knew  not  which  way  to 
look  for  her.  My  discoveries  must  be  wholly 
fortuitous. 

Notwithstanding  my  own  enjoyments,  I 
allowed  the  image  of  Mary  Wilmot  to  intrude 
into  my  thoughts  too  frequently.  Some  change 
in  my  temper  was  discerned  by  Clara,  and  she 
inquired  into  the  cause.    At  first,  I  was  de- 


CLARA  HOWARD.  125 

terred  by  indefinite  scruples,  from  unfolding 
the  cause,  but  some  reflection  shewed  me  that 
I  was  wrong,  in  so  long  concealing  from  her, 
a  transaction  of  this  moment.  I,  therefore, 
seized  a  favourable  opportunity,  and  recounted 
all  the  incidents  of  my  life,  connected  with  this 
poor  fugitive. 

When  I  began,  however,  I  was  not  aware 
of  the  embarrassment  which  I  was  preparing  to 
suffer  and  inflict.  We  used  to  sit  up  much 
longer  than  our  friends,  and  after  they  had 
retired  to  repose,  taking  their  places  on  the 
sofa,  allowed  the  embers  to  die  gradually  away, 
while  we  poured  forth,  unrestrained,  the  eff"u- 
sions  of  the  moment.  It  was  on  one  of  these 
occasions  that,  after  a  short  preface,  I  began 
my  story.  I  detailed  the  origin  of  my  inter- 
course with  miss  Wilmot,  the  discovery  of  her 
passion  for  me,  the  contest  between  that  pas- 
sion and  my  indiff"erence  on  one  side,  and  the 
claims  and  solicitations  of  Sedley  on  the  other, 
I  was  listened  to  with  the  deepest  emotion. 
Curiosity  enabled  her  to  stifle  it  for  some  time; 
but  when  I  came  to  the  events  of  Wilmot's 
death,  the  discovery  of  his  property,  and  the 
consequent  agreement  to  marrj^,  she  was  able 


126  CLARA  HOWARD. 

to  endure  the  recital  no  longer.  She  burst  Into 
tears,  and  articulated  with  difficulty  :  Enough, 
my  friend,  I  know  the  rest.  I  know  what  you 
would  say.  Your  melancholy  is  explained, 
and  I  see  that  my  fate  is  fixed  in  eternal  mi- 
sery. 

I  was  at  once  shocked,  astonished,  and  de- 
lighted, by  the  discovery  which  was  thus  made, 
and  made  haste,  by  recounting  subsequent 
transactions,  to  correct  her  error.  She  did 
not  draw  the  same  inferences  from  the  flight 
and  silence  of  the  girl,  or  drew  them  with  less 
confidence  than  I.  She  was  not  consoled  by 
my  avowals  of  passion  for  herself,  and  declared 
that  she  considered  my  previous  contract  as 
inviolable.  Nothing  could  absolve  me  from  it, 
but  the  absolute  renunciation  of  miss  Wilmot 
herself. 

I  considered  the  disappearance  and  silence 
of  Mary,  as  a  sufficient  renunciation  of  her 
claims,  and  once  more  dwelt  upon  the  scruples 
and  objections  which  she  had  formerly  raised 
to  our  alliance  ;  which  had  been,  imperfectly, 
and  for  a  time,  removed  by  the  death  of  her 
brother,  and  which,  Morton's  arrival,  had  re- 
stored to  their  original  strength.  Some  regard, 


CLARA  HOWARD.  127 

likewise,  was  due  to  my  own  felicity,  and  to 
that  of  one  whose  happiness  deserved  to  be  as 
zealously  promoted  as  that  of  the  fugitive.  It 
was  true,  that  I  had  tendered  vows  to  miss 
Wilmot,  which  my  understanding,  and  not  my 
heart ;  which  gratitude,  and  not  affection,  had 
dictated.  This  tender,  in  the  circumstances  in 
which  I  was  then  placed,  was  necessary  and 
proper ;  but  these  circumstances  had  now 
changed.  My  offer  had  been  tacitly  rejected. 
Not  only  my  love,  but  my  friendship,  had  been 
slighted  and  despised.  My  affections  had  ne- 
ver been  devoted  to  another,  and  the  sacrifice 
of  inclination  was  limited  to  myself.  1  his 
indifference,  however,  existed  no  more.  It  was 
supplanted  by  a  genuine  and  ardent  attachment 
for  one  in  all  respects  more  worthy.  I  was 
willing  to  hope  that  this  attachment  was  mu- 
tual. Fortune  and  her  parents,  and  her  own 
heart,  were  all  propitious  to  my  love  ;  and  to 
stifle  and  thwart  it  for  the  sake  of  one,  who  had 
abjured  my  society  and  my  friendship ;  who 
renounced  my  proffered  hand,  and  cancelled 
all  my  promises ;  who  had  possibly  made  her- 
self unworthy  of  my  esteem,  by  the  forfeiture 
of  honour  itself,  or  more  probably  had  given 


)28  CLARA  HOWARD. 

up  all  her  claims  on  my  justice  and  compassion, 
by  accepting  another,  would  be,  in  the  highest 
degree,  absurd  and  unjustifiable. 

These  arguments  wrought  no  effect  upon 
Clara.  It  was  her  duty,  she  answered,  to  con- 
tend with  selfish  regards,  and  to  judge  of  the 
feelings  of  others  by  her  own.  Whatever 
reluctance  she  might  experience  in  resigning 
me  to  another,  in  whatever  degree  she  might 
thwart  the  wishes  and  schemes  of  her  parents, 
it  was  her  duty  to  resign  me,  and  she  should 
derive  more  satisfaction  from  disinterested, 
than  from  sel£sh  conduct.  She  would  not 
attempt  to  disguise  her  feelings  and  wishes, 
and  extenuate  the  sacrifice  she  was  called  on 
to  make,  but  she  had  no  doubt  as  to  what  was 
right,  and  her  resolution  to  adhere  to  it  would 
be  immovable. 

This  resolution,  and  this  inflexibility,  were 
wholly  unexpected.  I  was  astonished  and 
mortified,  and  having  exhausted  all  my  argu- 
ments in  vain,  gave  way  to  some  degree  of 
acrimony  and  complaint,  as  if  I  were  capri- 
ciously treated.  At  one  time,  I  had  thoughts 
of  calling  her  parents  to  my  aid,  and  explain- 
ing to  them  my  situation  with  regard  to  Mary, 


CLARA  HOWARD.  129 

and  soliciting  them  to  exert  their  authority  in 
my  behalf  with  Clara. 

A  deep  and  incurable  sadness  now  appear- 
ed in  mj^  friend,  and  strong,  though  unosten- 
tatious proofs  were  daily  afforded,  that  an 
exquisite  sense  of  justice  had  dictated  her 
deportment,  and  that  she  had  laid  upon  her- 
self a  task  to  which  her  fortitude  was  scarcely 
equal.  It  appeared  to  me  the  highest  cruelty 
to  aggravate  the  difficulty  of  this  task,  by  enlist- 
ing against  her  those  whose  authority  she 
most  revered,  and  whose  happiness  she  was 
most  desirous  of  promoting. 

My  eagerness  to  trace  miss  Wilmot  to 
her  retreat,  to  find  out  her  condition,  and  make 
her,  if  possible,  my  advocate  with  Clara^  was 
increased  by  this  unhappy  re  solution.  I  began 
to  meditate  anew  upon  the  best  means  of  effect- 
ing this.  I  blamed  myself  for  having  so  long 
failed  to  employ  all  the  means  in  my  power, 
and  resolved  to  begin  my  search  without 
delay.  Clara,  whose  conclusions  respecting 
miss  Wilmot's  motives  were  far  more  chari- 
table than  mine,  was  no  less  earnest  in  incit- 
ing me  to  this  pursuit.  She  believed  miss 
Wilmot's  conduct  to  have  been  consistent  with 
l2 


130  CLARA  HOWARD. 

integrity,  that  it  flowed  from  a  generous  but 
erroneous  self-denial,  and  that  the  re-estab- 
lishment of  intercourse  between  us,  would 
terminate  in  the  happiness  of  both. 

The  incidents  formerly  related,  had  made 
It  certain  that  miss  Wilmot  had  flown  away  in 
company  with  Sedley.  Sedley's  patrimony 
and  fixed  abode  were  in  Virginia.  There,  it 
was  most  probable,  that  he  and  the  fugitive 
would  be  found.  There,  at  least,  should  Sed- 
ley have  abandoned  his  ancient  residence, 
was  it  most  likely  that  the  means  of  tracing 
his  footsteps,  would  be  found.  Mary,  if  not 
at  present  in  his  company,  or  in  that  of  his 
sister,  had  not  perhaps  concealed  her  asylum 
from  them,  and  might  be  discovered  by  their 
means.  Fortunately,  Mr.  Howard  had  engage- 
ments at  Richmond  which  would  shortly 
require  his  o\vn  presence,  or  that  of  one  in 
whom  he  could  confide.  He  had  mentioned 
this  necessity  in  my  presence  in  such  a  way  as 
shewed  that  he  would  not  be  unwilling  to 
transfer  his  business  to  me.  Hitherto  I  had 
been  unwilling  to  relinquish  my  present  situa- 
tion ;  but  now  I  begged  to  be  entrusted  with 


CLARA  HOWARD.  131 

his  commission,  as  it  agreed  with  my  own 
projects. 

In  a  few  days  I  set  out  upon  this  journey. 
Passing,  necessarily,  at  no  great  distance  from 
Hatfield,  I  took  that  opportunity  of  visiting 
my  uncle  and  sisters.  You  may  imagine  my 
surprise  on  finding,  at  my  uncle's  house,  a 
letter  for  me,  from  Mary,  which  had  arrived 
there  just  after  my  departure,  in  the  preced- 
ing autumn,  and  had  lain,  during  the  whole 
winter,  neglected  and  forgotten,  in  a  drawer. 

This  letter  was  worthy  of  my  friend's 
generous  and  indignant  spirit,  and  fully  ac- 
counted for  her  flight  from  Abingdon.  She 
was  determined  to  separate  herself  from  me, 
to  die  in  some  obscure  recess,  whither  I 
should  never  be  able  to  trace  her,  and  thus  to 
remove  every  obstacle  in  the  way  of  my  pre- 
tentions to  one,  younger,  lovlier  and  richer 
than  herself.  In  this  letter  was  enclosed  an 
order  for  the  money,  which,  as  I  had  taught 
her  too  hastily  to  believe,  belonged  to  ano- 
ther. 

I  believe  you  know  that  I  am  not  a  selfish 
or  unfeeling  wretch.  What  but  the  deepest 
regret,  could  I  feel  at  the  ignorance  in  which  I 


132  CLARA  HOWARD. 

had  so  long  been  kept  of  her  destiny ;  what,  but 
vehement  impatience  to  discover  the  place  of 
her  retreat,  and  persuade  her  to  accept  my 
vows,  or,  at  least,  to  take  back  the  money  to 
which  Morton's  title  was  not  yet  proved, 
which  would  save  her  at  least  from  the  hor- 
rors of  that  penury  she  was  so  little  qualified 
to  endure,  and  to  which,  for  more  than  six 
inclement  months,  she  had  been,  through  un- 
happy misapprehension,  subjected? 

In  this  mood  I  hastened  to  this  city,  but 
my  heroism  quickly  evaporated.  I  felt  no 
abatement  of  my  eagerness  to  benefit  the  un- 
happy fugitive,  by  finding  her;  counselling 
her;  consoling  her;  repossessing  her  of  the 
means  of  easy,  if  not  of  affluent  subsistence ; 
but  more  than  this  I  felt  myself  incapable  of 
offering.  I  knew  full  well,  that,  when  ac- 
quainted with  the  whole  truth,  she  never 
would  accept  me  as  hers  ;  but  I  despaired  of 
gaining  any  thing  with  respect  to  Clara,  by 
that  rejection.  I  despaired  of  ever  lighting 
again  on  miss  Wilmot.  Besides,  my  pride 
was  piqued  and  wounded  by  resolutions  that 
appeared  to  me  absurd;  to  arise  from  preju- 
diced views  and  a  narrow  heart ;  from  unrea- 


CLARA  HOWARD.  133 

sonable  regards  bestowed  upon  one,  of  whose 
merits  she  had  no  direct  knowledge,  and  blam- 
able  indifference  to  another^  whom  she  had 
abundant  reason  to  love. 

The  letters  that  passed  between  us  only 
tended  to  convince  me  that  she  was  implaca- 
ble, and  I  left  the  city  for  Virginia  with  a 
secret  determination  of  never  returning.  I 
resolved  to  solicit  Mr.  Howard's  permission 
to  accompany  some  surveyors  employed  by 
him,  who  were  to  pass  immediately  into  the 
western  country.  By  this  means,  I  hoped  to 
shake  off  fetters  that  were  now  become  badges 
of  misery  and  ignominy. 

The  wisdom  of  man,  when  employed  upon 
the  future,  is  incessantly  taught  its  own  weak- 
ness. Had  an  angel  whispered  me,  as  I 
mounted  the  stage  for  Baltimore,  that  I  should 
go  no  further  on  that  journey  than  Schuylkill, 
and  that,  without  any  new  argument  or  effort 
on  my  part,  Clara  would,  of  her  own  accord, 
call  me  back  to  her  and  to  happiness,  I  should 
no  doubt  have  discredited  the  intimation. 
Yet  such  was  the  event. 

In  order  to  rescue  a  drowning  passenger, 
I  leaped  into  the  river.     The  weather  being 


134  CLARA  HOWARD. 

bleak  and  unwholesome,  I  was  seized,  shortly 
after  my  coming  out,  with  a  fever,  which  re- 
duced me,  in  a  very  few  days,  to  the  brink  of 
the  grave.  Now  was  the  solicitude  of  my 
Clara  awakened.  When  in  danger  of  losing 
me  forever,  she  discovered  the  weakness  of 
her  scruples,  and  effectually  recalled  me  to 
life,  by  entreating  me  to  live  for  her  sake. 

I  have  not  yet  perfectly  recovered  my 
usual  health.  I  am  unfit  for  business  or  for 
travelling;  and  standing  in  need  of  some 
amusement  which  will  relieve,  without  fa- 
tiguing my  attention,  I  called  to  mind  your 
claims  on  me,  and  determined  to  give  you  the 
account  you  desired. 

When  I  received  your  letter,  informing 
me  of  your  design  to  meet  me  in  New-York, 
I  was  utterly  dispirited  and  miserable.  My 
design  of  coming  southward,  I  knew,  would 
prevent  an  immediate  meeting  with  you,  and 
as  I  had  then  conceived  the  project  of  a  jour- 
ney to  the  western  waters,  I  imagined  that 
we  should  never  ha.ve  another  meeting. 

Now,  my  friend,  my  prospects  are  brighter, 
and  I  hope  to  greet  you  the  moment  of  your 
arrival  in  New-York.     I  shall  go  thither  as 


CLARA  HOWARD.  135 

soon  as  I  am  able.  I  shall  never  repose  till  my 
happiness  with  Clara  is  put  beyond  the  power 
of  man  to  defeat. 

But,  alas  !  what  has  become  of  Mary  Wil- 
mot.  Heaven  grant  that  she  be  safe.  While 
unacquainted  with  her  destiny,  my  happiness 
will  never  be  complete  ;  day  and  night  I  tor- 
ment myself  with  fruitless  conjectures  about 
her.  Yet  she  went  away  with  Sedley,  a  man 
of  honour,  and  her  lover,  and  with  his  sister, 
whose  integrity  cannot  be  questioned.  With 
these  she  cannot  be  in  danger,  or  in  poverty. 
This  reflection  consoles  me. 

I  long  to  see  you,  my  friend.  I  hope  to  be 
of  some  service  to  you.  You  will  see,  by  this 
long  detail,  that  fortune  has  been  kind  to  me. 
Indeed,  when  I  take  a  view  of  the  events  of 
the  last  year,  I  cannot  find  language  for  my 
wonder.  My  blessings  are  so  numerous  and 
exorbitant,  my  merits  so  slender. 

I  wish  thee  patience  to  carry  thee  to  the 
end  of  this  long  letter. 

Adieu. 

E.  H- 


CLARA  HOWARD. 


LETTER  XIV. 


TO  E.  HARTLEY. 


Kew-York,  April  28. 

Why  don't  you  come  home,  my  love? 
Are  you  not  quite  well  ?  Tell  me  when  ;  the 
day,  the  hour,  when  I  may  expect  you.  I  will 
put  new  elegance  into  my  garb ;  new  health 
into  my  cheeks ;  new  light ;  new  love ;  new 
joy  into  my  eyes,  against  that  happy  hour. 

Would  to  heaven  I  were  with  you.  I  re- 
presented to  my  father  what  an  excellent  nurse 
I  should  prove,  but  he  would  not  suffer  me  to 
accompany  him.  I  have  a  good  mind  to  steal 
away  to  you,  even  now ;  but  are  you  not  al- 
ready quite  well?  Yes,  you  are  ;  or,  very  soon 
will  be.  Time  and  care  are  all  that  are  required 
to  make  you  so. 

M 


138  CLARA  HOWARD. 

But,  poor  Mary.. ..Does  notyour  heart,  my 
Edv/ard,  bleed  for  poor  IVIary  ?  Can  I  rob  her 
of  so  precious  a  good  ;  bereave  her  of  the  gem 
oi  which  she  has  so  long  been  in  secure  pos- 
session? 

Can  I  riot  in  bliss,  and  deck  myself  in  bri- 
dal ornaments,  while  she  lives  pining  in  drea- 
ry solitude,  carrying  to  the  grave  an  heart 
broken  by  the  contumelies  of  the  world ;  the 
horrors  of  indigence  and  neglect ;  and  chiefly 
by  the  desertion  of  him  on  whom  she  doated  ? 
Do  I  not  know  what  it  is  to  love  ?  Cannot  I 
easily  imagine  what  it  is  to  bear  about  an  un- 
requited passion  ?  Have  I  not  known,  from 
infancy,thepleasures  of  affluence  and  homage? 
Cannot  I  conceive  the  mortifications  to  one 
thus  bred  up,  of  poverty  and  labour  ?  Indeed, 
my  friend,  I  conceive  them  so  justly,  th^t  till 
?»Iary  Wilmot  is  discovered,  and  is  either 
been  found  happy,  or  been  made  happy,  no 
selfish  gratification,  whatever,  can  insure  my 
peace. 

I  should  not  thus  be  deeply  interested  for 
a  mere  stranger.  I  know  your  Mary.  Your 
details,  full  of  honesty  and  candour,  have  made 
me  thoroughly  acquainted  with  her.  You  have 


CLARA  HOWARD.  IZ9 

given  me,  in  the  picture  of  her  life,  the  amplest 
picture  of  an  human  being  that  I  ever  was  al- 
lowed to  survey.  Her  virtue,  my  friend,  has 
been  tried.  Not  without  foibles,  she  is,  for 
which  she  was  indebted  to  her  education  ;  but 
her  signal  excellence  lies  in  having,  in  spite  of 
a  most  pernicious  education,  so  few  faults. 

My  friend,  you  must  find  her.  As  you 
value  my  happiness,  you  77iust.  Nay,  as  you 
value  my  love.  If  your  zeal  did  not  lead  you 
to  move  heaven  and  earth  in  her  cause,  you 
would  be,  in  my  eyes,  a  wretch.  Nay,  if  you 
did  not.. ..But  I  am  straying  from  the  path.  I 
must  not  think  of  her,  lest  my  admiration  and 
my  pity  for  her  get  the  better  of  my  love  for 
you. 

Pray,  make  haste  and  be  well,  that  you 
make  as  happy  as  she  can  be,  your  fond,  your 
devoted 

Clara. 


CLARA  HOWARD. 


LETTER  XV. 


TO  CLARA  HOWARD. 

Philadelphia,  April  30. 

I  WILL  never  yield  to  you,  my  friend, 
in  zeal  for  one  whom  I  reverence  and  love  so 
much  as  Mary  Wilmot.  How  I  adore  your 
generous,  your  noble  spirit.  While  limited 
to  the  real  good  of  that  girl ;  while  zealous 
to  confer  happiness  on  her,  without  an  equiva- 
lent injury  to  others,  I  applaud,  and  will 
strive  to  emulate  your  generosity.... 

An  incident  has  just  occurred,  that  seems 
to  promise  some  intelligence  concerning  her. 
It  has  made  me  very  uneasy.  I  am  afraid  she 
is  not  happy.  I  am  afraid  she  is.. ..is  not  happy ; 
I  mean,  I  fear  she  is. ...unhappy.  But  I  know 
not  what  I  would  say.  I  am  bewildered..., by 
M  2 


CLARA  HOWARD. 

my  terrors  on  her  account.  Let  me  tell  you 
what  I  have  heard.  Judge  for  yourself.  Un- 
happy the  hour  that  I  wrote  the  last  letter  from 
Hatfield.  Yet,  who  could  imagine  that  the  in« 
telligence  contained  in  it  would  suggest  so 
rash,  so  precipitate  a  flight  I 

This  Sedley,  whose  fidelity,  whose  honour 
I  have  so  often  applauded,  is,  I  am  afraid,  a 
miscreant ;  a  villain.  Mary.. ..the  very  thought 
takes  away  my  breath., ..is,  I  fear,  a  lost,  un- 
done creature.... 

Yet  how?  Such  a  fall  surely  was  impossible. 
Mary  Wilmot^  whose  whole  life  has  been  ex- 
posed to  my  view;  whom  I  have  seen  in  the 
most  unguarded  moments;  whose  indifference 
to  Sedley ;  whose  unconquerable  aversion  to 
his  most  honourable  and  flattering  offers,  I 
have  so  often  witnessed,  could  not  forget  her- 
self; her  dignity.     I  will  not  believe  it. 

But  what  am  I  saying?  Let  me  recollect 
myself,  and  lay,  distinctly,  before  you,  the 
cause  of  my  apprehensions. 

This  morning  being  disengaged,  and  the 
air  mild,  instead  of  going  on  with  this  letter, 
I  stole  abroad  to  enjoy  the  sweet  breath  of 
heaven.  My  feet  carried  me,  unaware,  to  the 


CLARA  HOWARD.  US 

door  of  the  house  in  which  I  formerly  passed 
a  servitude  of  three  years.  My  old  master, 
Watkins,  of  time-measuring  memory,  has 
been  some  time  dead.  The  widow  turned 
her  stock  into  revenue,  and  now  lives  at  her 
ease.  Though  not  eminently  good,  she  is  far 
from  being  a  bad  woman.  She  never  behaved 
otherwise  than  kindly  to  "  Neddy  Sobersides," 
as  she  used  to  call  me,  and  I  feel  somewhat 
like  gratitude,  which  would  not  let  me  pass 
the  door.     So  I  called,  to  see  the  old  dame. 

I  found  her  by  a  close-stove,  in  the  parlour, 
knitting  a  blue  stocking,... Lack  a  day,  said  she, 
why  as  I's  a  living  soul,  this  is  our  Ned. 

After  the  usual  congratulations  and  inqui- 
ries were  made,  she  proceeded  :  Why,  what 
a  fine  story  is  this,  Neddy,  that  we  hear  of 
you  ?  Why,  they  say  youVe  grown  a  rich  man's 
son,  and  are  going  to  be  maiTied  to  a  fine  rich, 
great  lady,  from  some  other  country. 

I  avoided  a  direct  answer.  She  continued : 
Ah !  dear  me,  we  all  thought  you  were  going 
to  be  married  to  poor  Molly  Wilmot,  the 
mantua-maker.  Nay,  for  the  matter  o-  that, 
my  poor  dear  man,  I  remember,  said,  as  how, 
that  if  so  be,  we'd  wait  a  year  or  so,  we  should 


144  CLARA  HOWARD. 

see  things  turn  up  so,  that  you  and  her  should 
be  married  already  ;  at  that  time  ;  and  that,  I 
remember,  was  just  as  your  time  was  up.  But 
Molly,  (with  a  very  significant  air  this  was 
said)  has  carried  her  goods  to  a  much  worse 
market  it  seems. 

Why,  know  you  any  thing  of  miss  Wil- 
mot? 

Why,  I  don't  know  but  as  I  does.  I  doesn't 
know  much  to  her  advantage  though,  you 
may  depend,  Neddy. 

I  was  startled.  What  do  you  know  of  her? 
Tell  me,  I  beseech  you,  all  you  know  ? 

Why,  1  don't  know  much,  not  I ;  but  Peg- 
gy, my  nurse,  said  something  or  other  about 
her,  yesterday.     She  drank  tea  with  me.... 

Pray,  said  I,  impatiently,  what  said  your 
nurse  of  miss  Wilmot  ? 

Why,  I  don't  know  as  I  ought  to  tell....  But 
I  will  not  tease  you,  Clara,  as  I  was  tired  with 
the  jargon  of  the  old  woman.  I  will  give  you 
the  sum  of  her  intelligence  in  my  own  words. 

The  nurse  had  lately  been  in  the  family  of 
Mr.  Kalm,  of  Germantown.... between  which 
and  that  of  Mrs.  Valentine,  I  have  long  known 
that  much  intimacy  subsisted,      Sedley,  it 


CLARA  HOWARD.  145 

seems,  passed  through  this  city  about  three 
weeks  ago,  and  spent  a  day  at  Mr.  Kalm's. 
At  dinner,  when  the  nurse  was  present,  the 
conversation  turned  upon  the  marriage  of  Sed- 
ley,  which,  it  seems,  was  just  concerted  with 
the  daughter  of  a  wealthy  family  in  Virginia. 
The  lady's  name  was  mentioned,  but  the  nurse 
forgot  it. 

Mrs.  Kalm,  who  is  noted  for  the  freedom 
of  her  discourse,  reminded  Mr.  Sedley  of 
the  mantua-maker  who  eloped  with  him  from 
Abingdon  last  autumn,  and  jestingly  inquired 
into  her  present  condition.  Sedley  dealt  in 
hints  and  innuendoes,  which  imported  that  he 
was  on  as  good  terms  with  MoUy  Wilmot  as 
he  desired  to  be ;  that  all  his  wishes,  with  res- 
pect to  her,  were  now  accomplished ;  that  she 
knew  her  own  interest  too  well  to  allow  any 
obstruction  to  his  marriage  to  come  from  her ; 
that  she  would  speedily  resume  her  customary 
station  in  society,  as  the  cause  of  her  present 
disappearance  was  likely  to  be  soon  removed. 

I  will  not  torment  you  or  myself,  by  dwel- 
ling on  further  particulars.  My  informant 
was  deplorably  defective  in  the  means  of  im- 
parting any  clear  and  consistent  meaning.  An 


146  CLARA  HOWARD. 

hour  was  employed  in  recollecting  facts  and 
answering  questions,  all  which,  taken  together, 
imported  nothing  less  than  that  an  improper 
connection  had,  for  some  months,  subsisted 
between  Sedley  and  my  friend ;  a  connection 
of  such  a  nature  as  was  consistent  with  his  mar- 
riage with  another. 

Comfort  me  ;  counsel  me,  my  angel.  I  ga- 
thered from  the  beldame's  tale,  the  probability 
at  least,  that  miss  Wilmot  was  still  in  this  city. 
Shall  I  seek  her?  shall  I. ...Tell  me,  in  short, 
what  I  must  believe  ?  what  I  shall  do  ? 

E.  H. 


CLARA  HOWARD, 


LETTER  XVI. 


TO  E.  HARTLEY. 


New-York,  May  2. 

AH!  my  friend!  art  thou  so  easily  mis- 
led? Does  slander  find  in  thee  a  dupe  of  her 
most  silly  and  extravagant  contrivances  ?  An 
old  nurse's  envious  and  incoherent  tale  I  At 
second  hand,  too !  With  all  the  deductions  and 
embellishments  which  must  cleave  to  every 
story,  as  it  passes  through  the  imagination  of 
two  gossips. 

Art  thou  not  ashamed  of  thyself,  Edward  ? 
To  impute  black  pollution  to  the  heart,  whose 
fortitude,  whose  purity,  so  many  years  of  trial 
have  attested,  on  the  audiority  of  a  crazy  bel- 
dame, repeating  the  malignant  inferences,  and 
embellishing  the  stupid  hints  of  an  old  nurse. 


U8  CLARA  HOWARD. 

Sedley  is  a  villain  and  a  slanderer.  Had  /been 
present  when  he  thc^ght  proper  to  blast  the 
fame  of  the  innocent  and  absent^I  should  not 
have  controuled  my  indignation.  I  should 
have  cast  the  furious  lie  in  his  teeth. 

And  is  it  possible,  my  friend,  that  on  such 
evidence  as  this,  you  build  your  belief  that 
Mary  has  become  an  abandoned  creature!  I 
am  ashamed  of  such  credulity.  She  is  in  the 
same  city,  you  believe,  yet  sit  idly  in  your 
chamber,  lamenting  that  depravity  which  exists 
only  in  your  fancy,  and  finding  in  such  absurd 
and  groundless  suspicions,  a  reason  for  with- 
holding that  propert}  which,  whether  she  be 
vile  as  dirt,  or  bright  as  heaven,  is  equally  her 
right. 

Seek  her  out  this  moment.  Never  rest  till 
you  have  found  her.  Restore  to  her,  her  own 
property  ;  tender  her  your  counsel ;  your  aid. 
Mention  me  to  her  as  one  extremely  anxious 
to  cultivate  her  good  opinion,  and  enjoy  her 
friendship.  Do  this,  Edward,  instantly,  I  ex- 
hort, I  intreat,  I  command  you ;  and  let  mc 
know  the  result  t 

C.  H. 


CLARA  HOWARD, 


LETTER  XVII, 


TO  CLARA  HOWARD. 

Philadelphia,  May  4. 

I  HAVE  just  returned  from  Germantown, 
and  find  your  letter  on  my  table.  Thank  hea- 
ven, I  have  not  merited  all  your  rebukes.  That 
anxiety  to  ascertain  the  truth,  and  that  unwil- 
lingness to  trust  to  such  witnesses  as  gossips 
and  nurses,  which  you  think  I  ought  to  feel,  I 
really  have  felt.  My  last  was  written  in  the 
first  tumult  of  my  thoughts.  The  moment  I 
laid  down  the  pen,  and  began  more  delibe- 
rately to  reflect  upon  the  subject,  doubts  and 
hopes  thronged  into  my  imagination.  I  re- 
solved to  bend  every  nerve  to  discover  the 
retreat  of  Mary,  and  ascertain  her  true  situa- 
tion. 


BO  CLARA  HOWARD. 

As  Sedley  was  so  well  known  to  Mrs. 
Kalm,  I  resolved  to  visit  that  lady.  I  had  no 
acquaintance  with  her,  but  I  overlooked  the 
impropriety  of  my  application,  and  set  out  im- 
mediately to  Germantown. 

Being  admitted  to  an  apartment  in  which 
I  found  that  lady  alone,  I  introduced  rnyself 
in  some  confused  way,  I  scarcely  know  how, 
and  inquired  whether  she  knew  the  person 
whom  Sedley  was  about  to  marry,  and  whe- 
ther she  could  afford  me  any  information  of 
the  place  where  Mary  Wilmot  was  likely  to  be 
found. 

She  answered,  with  great  civility,  that  Sed- 
ley's  sister  was  her  dear  friend ;  that  Mrs. 
Valentine  resided,  at  this  time,  in  New-En- 
gland ;  that  her  brother,  passing  lately  through 
this  city,  in  order  to  join  her,  had  spent  part 
of  a  day  with  Mr.  Kalm  ;  that  Sedley  had  given 
his  friends  leave  to  consider  him  as  upon  the 
eve  of  marriage,  but  had  not  thought  proper  to 
disclose  to  them  the  name  and  family  of  the 
lady  ;  that  they  were  totally  in  the  dark  on  both 
these  heads,  but  were  inclined  to  believe  that 
she  was  a  woman  of  Boston ;  that  as  to  Mary 
Wilmot,  she  knew  nothing  of  her  or  her  affairs. 


CLARA  HOWARD.  15  i 

Mrs.  Kalm's  curiosity  was  somewhat  ex- 
cited by  the  singularity  of  my  introduction, 
and  she  soon  became  inquisitive  in  her  turn. 
Encouraged  by  her  frank  and  communicative 
humour,  I  ventured  to  explain,  unreservedly, 
the  motive  of  my  inquiries.  She  smiled  at 
the  impression  which  the  tale  of  the  nurse  and 
gossip  had  made  on  my  fears. 

Your  uneasiness,  said  she,  was  without  any 
foundation.  Perhaps  \V£  might  have  jestingly 
talked  of  Miss  Wilmot's  elopement  with  Sed- 
ley,  because  his  pretensions  to  that  girl  are 
pretty  well  known ;  but  I  am  not  now  to  be  told 
that  your  friend  was,  on  that  journey,  the  com- 
panion, not  of  the  brother,  but  the  sister,  and 
that  Miss  Wilmot's  reputation  and  virtue, 
could  not  be  safer  under  her  own  guardianship 
than  under  Mrs.  Valentine's.  Besides,  there 
is  not  a  man  in  the  world,  of  stricter  principles 
than  Sedley.  What  you  have  heard,  or  some- 
thing like  it,  might  actually  have  passed  at  that 
dinner,  but  no  one  could  have  construed  it  in 
a  way  injurious  to  Sedley  or  your  friend,  but 
who  was  wholly  unacquainted  with  the  parties, 
or  who  was  very  hungry  after  slander. 


152  CLARA  HOWARD. 

Sedley  certainly  talked  fts  if  he  knew  more 
of  Miss  Wilmot  than  he  just  then  thought  fit 
to  disclose.  What  he  said  was  accompanied 
with  nods  and  smiles  of  some  significance ; 
but  I  should  just  as  readily  have  put  an  evil 
construction  on  his  hints,  had  he  been  talking 
of  his  own  sister.  All  the  world  knows  that 
a  woman  of  merit  would  be  sure  to  receive 
from  Sedley,  exactly  the  treatment  which  an 
affectionate  brother  wpuld  be  disposed  to  give. 

As  to  Miss  Wilmot's  disappearance,  I  ne- 
ver knew,  till  now,  there  was  any  thing  myste- 
rious or  suspicious  in  her  conduct.  It  is  true, 
she  left  her  former  residence,  but,  considering 
in  whose  company  she  left  it,  and  the  privacy 
and  solitude  in  which  she  had  previously  lived, 
I  was  inclined  to  think  she  had  risen  into  sight 
and  notice,  and  instead  of  retiring  from  obser- 
vation, had  come  forth  more  conspicuously 
than  ever.  This  was  necessarily  the  case,  if 
she  lived,  or  associated,  as  she  probably  did, 
with  Mrs.  Valentine. 

When  Sedley  talked  of  the  cause  of  her 
journey  being  removed,  and  her  reassuming 
her  station  among  us,  I  confess  he  was  unin- 
telligible to  me.     I  knew  of  no  cause  for  her 


CLARA  HOWARD.  153 

journey,  but  her  own  pleasure,  and  perhaps, 
Mrs.  Valentine's  intreaties.  The  construction 
which  a  casual  hearer  seems  to  have  put  upon 
his  words,  was  foolish  and  preposterous.  In- 
deed, it  is  highly  offensive  to  me,  since  it  pre- 
supposed that  I  could  patiently  hear  any  one 
utter  such  insinuations  at  my  table. 

Mrs.  Kalm  seemed  much  hurt  at  the  mis- 
apprehensions of  the  nurse,  and  was  very 
earnest  in  vindicating  Sedley's  innocence.  She 
bore  testimony  to  the  undeviating  and  exem- 
plary propriety  of  Miss  Wilmot's  conduct,  ever 
since  it  had  been  within  the  reach  of  her  obser- 
vation. 

Thou  wilt  imagine,  Clara,  with  what  un- 
speakable delight  I  listened  to  her  eulogy.  I 
was  astonished  at  my  own  folly,  in  drawing 
such  extl-avagant  conclusions.  My  own  heart 
pleads  guilty  to  thy  charges  of  credulity  and 
precipitation,  but  I  hope  I  shall  not  be  so  grossly 
or  so  easily  deceived  a  second  time. 

Mrs.  Kalm  could  give  me  no  account  of 
the  present  situation  of  my  friend,  but  she  gave 
me  Mrs.  Valentine's  address.  From  her,  no 
doubt,  I  shall  be  able  to  obtain  all  the  infor- 
mation I  want.  I  was  a  stupid  wretch,  not 
N  2 


\5i  CLARA  HOWARD. 

sooner  to  inquire  among  that  lady's  numerous 
friends,  where  she  was  to  be  found.  I  will 
write  to  her  immediately. 

Congratulate  me,  my  beloved,  on  this  open* 
ing  of  brighter  prospects  for  one  who  is  equally 
and  deservedly  dear  to  both  of  us.  Unless 
you  make  haste  to  write,  I  shall  receive  your 
congratulations  in  person,  for  I  feel  myself, 
already,  well  enough  to  travel,  in  your  com- 
pany, to  the  world's  end.     Adieu. 

E.  Hartley. 


CLARA  HOWARD. 


LETTER  XVIII. 


TO  CLARA  HOWARD. 

Philadelphia,  May  5. 

Though  I  am  so  soon  to  be  with  you, 
and  have  received  no  answer  to  my  last,  yet  I 
cannot  be  alone  in  my  chamber,  and  be  within 
reach  of  pen  and  paper,  without  snatching 
them  up  and  talking  to  my  friend  thus.  This 
is  a  mode  of  conversing  I  would  willingly  ex- 
change for  the  more  lively  and  congenial  inter- 
course of  eyes  and  lips,  but  'tis  better  than 
total  silence. 

What  are  you  doing  now?  Busy,  I  sup- 
pose, in  turning  over  the  leaves  of  some  book. 
Some  painter  of  manners  or  of  nature  is  before 
you.  Some  dramatist,  or  poet,  or  historian, 
furnishes  you  with  occupation.  The  day,  here, 


156  CLARA  HOWARD. 

is  celestially  benign.  Such,  only,  as  our  cli- 
mate can  know.  It  is  not  less  splendid  and 
eerene  with  you.  So,  you  have  strolled  into 
that  field,  which  is  not  excelled,  for  the  gran- 
deur of  its  scenery,  the  balsamic  and  reviving 
virtue  of  its  breezes,  its  commodiousness  of 
situation,  for  the  purpose  of  relieving  those 
condemned  to  a  city  life,  by  any  field  on  this 
globe.  The  batttery....what  a  preposterous 
name !  Yet  not  the  only  instance  of  a  mound, 
serving  at  once  the  double  purpose  of  pleasure 
and  defence.  Did  you  not  say  the  buhvarks 
of  Paris  were  pleasure-walks  ?  You  have  been 
in  Sicily  and  Provence.  Did  you  ever  meet 
with  sun,  sky,  and  water,  more  magnificent, 
and  air  more  bland,  than  you  are  now  contem- 
plating and  breathing?  For  methinks  I  see  that 
lovely  form  gliding  along  the  green,  or  fixed, 
in  musing  posture,  at  the  rails,  and  listening  to 
the  ripling  of  the  waters. 

Perhaps,  some  duty  keeps  you  at  home. 
You  expect  a  visitant ;  are  seated  at  your  toilet ; 
adding  all  the  inchantments  of  drapery;  the 
brilliant  hues  and  the  flowing  train  of  muslin, 
to  a  form  whose  excellence  it  is  to  be  beauti- 


CLARA  HOWARD.  157 

ful  when  unadorned,  and  yet  to  gain  from  every 
ornament,  new  beauty. 

What  a  rare  lot  is  yours,  Clara!  One  of 
the  most  fortunate  of  women  art  thou.  Wealth, 
affluence,  is  yours ;  but  wealth  is  only  the  means 
of  every  kind  of  happiness  ;  it  is  not  happiness 
itself.  But  you  have  not  only  the  tools,  but 
the  inclination  and  ability  to  use  them.  In  no 
hands  could  riches  be  placed  so  as  to  produce 
more  felicity  to  the  possessor,  and  to  those 
within  reach  of  her  munificence. 

Which  is  the  most  unerring  touchstone  of 
merit,  poverty  or  riches?  Ingeniously  to  sup- 
ply the  place,  or  gracefully  to  endure  the  want 
of  riches,  is  the  privilege  of  great  minds.  To 
retain  humility  and  probity,  in  spite  of  riches, 
and  to  effect  the  highest  good  of  ourselves  and 
others,  by  the  use  of  them,  is  the  privilege  of 
minds  still  greater.  The  last  privilege  is 
Clara's.  The  first.... vanity  has  sometimes 
said... .no  matter  what.  It  was,  indeed,  vanity 
that  said  it.  Vanity,  that  is  now  humbled  into 
wisdom  and  self-distrust.  So  far  from  bearing 
poverty  with  dignity,  I  cannot  justly  call  my 
former  situation  by  that  name,  and  was  far 


158  CLARA  HOWARD. 

from  bearing  even  the  moderate  privations  of 
that  state  with  fortitude. 

And  are,  indeed,  these  privations  forever 
at  an  end?  Is  the  harder  test  of  wisdom,  the 
true  use  of  riches,  now  to  be  imposed  upon 
me  ?  It  is.  Clara  Howard,  and  all  that  she 
inherits,  will  be  mine.  I  ought  to  tremble  for 
the  consequences  of  exposure  to  such  tempta- 
tions. And,  if  I  stood  alone,  I  should  tremble ; 
but,  in  reality,  whatever  is  your,  or  your  father's 
gift,  is  not  mine.  Your  power  over  it  shall  ever 
be  unlimited  anduncontrouled  by  me,  and  this, 
not  more  from  the  equity  of  your  claim  to  the 
sole  power,  than  from  the  absolute  rectitude 
with  which  that  power  will  be  exercised  by 
you.  Had  I  millions  of  my  own  acquiring, 
I  should  deem  it  no  more  than  my  duty  to  re- 
sign to  you  the  employment  of  them. 

Ah !  my  divine  friend  !  I  will  be  no  more 
than  your  agent;  your  almoner;  one  whose 
aid  may  make  charity  less  toilsome  to  you ; 
may  free  the  pleasures  of  beneficence  from 
some  of  those  pains  by  which  they  are  usually 
attended.  I  will  go  before  you,  plucking  up 
thorns,  and  removing  asperities  from  the  path 
that  you  chuse.     All  my  recompense  shall  be 


CLARA  HOWARD.  159 

the  consciousness  in  whose  service  I  labour, 
and  whose  pleasures  I  enhance. 

They  tell  us  that  ambition  is  natural  to 
man :  that  no  possession  is  so  pleasing  as  power 
and  command.  I  do  not  find  it  so.  I  would 
fain  be  an  universal  benefactor.  The  power, 
that  office  or  riches  confers,  is  requisite  to  this 
end  J  but  power  in  infirm  hands,  is  productive 
only  of  mischief.  I  who  know  my  own  frailty, 
am  therefore  undesirous  of  power.  So  far 
from  wishing  to  rule  others,  it  is  my  glory  and 
my  boast  to  submit  to  one  whom  I  deem  uner- 
ring and  divine.  Clara's  will  is  my  law  :  her 
pleasure  the  science  that  I  study ;  her  smiles 
the  reward  that,  next  to  an  approving  God, 
my  soul  prizes  most  dearly. 

Indeed,  my  friend,  before  you  honour  me 
with  your  choice,  you  should  contrive  to  exalt 
me  or  lower  yourself.  Some  parity  there 
ought  to  be  between  us.  An  angel  in  the  hea- 
vens, like  thee,  is  not  a  fit  companion  for  a 
mere  earth-worm,  like 

Hartley. 


CLARA  HOWARD, 


LETTER  XIX. 


TO  E.  HARTLEY. 


New-York,  May  6. 

Ah  hah!  give  them  to  me.  Two  letters 
at  once.  This  is  unexpected  happiness. 
Charming  papers  !  Lie  there  and  still  the  little 
rebel,  that  will  not  allow  me  speech. 

And  thinkest  thou  my  lips  said  this,  as 
my  father  threw  thy  letters  into  my  lap  ?  No 
such  thing.  My  heart  was  mutinous,  'tis  true, 
but  no  one  present.... there  were  many  present 
....was  aware  of  its  tumults,  except,  indeed, 
my  mother.  Her  observant  eye  saw  what 
was  passing  within.  Or  rather  she  guessed, 
from  the  superscription,  what  I  felt,  and  there- 
fore, considerately  furnished  me  with  an  ex** 
cuse  for  retiring. 


162  CLARA  HOWARD. 

"  Clara,  my  dear,  I  imagine  your  good  wo 
man  has  come.    I  think  I  saw  her  go  down  the 
steps.     My  friends  will  excuse  you  for  a  mo- 
ment." 

I  hastily  withdrew;  and  then,  Edward,  hav- 
ing gained  the  friendly  covert  of  my  chamber, 
I  eagerly,  rapturously,  kissed  and  read  thy 
letters. 

I  thought  it  would  prove  a  mere  slander ; 
and  yet  I  was  uneasy.  The  mere  possibility 
of  its  truth,  shocked  and  distressed  me,  more 
than  I  can  tell;  but  thy  intelligence  has  not 
only  removed  the  disquiet  which  thy  forego- 
ing letter  had  produced,  but,  in  reality,  has 
given  me  uncommon  pleasure.  I  flatter  my- 
self that  your  letter  to  Mrs.  Valentine  will 
receive  a  speedy  and  satisfactory  answer. 

Human  life,  Edward,  is  a  motley  scene. 
Thou  wilt  not  thank  me  for  the  novelty  of  that 
remark,  but  the  truth  of  it  I  think  has  received 
new  illustration  in  the  little  incidents  on 
which  thy  last  letters  have  commented.  Had 
not  the  old  nurse's  tale  incited  thee  to  inquiry, 
thou  would'st  not,  at  this  moment,  have  been 
in  the  way  to  gain  any  knowledge  of  poor 
Mary,     Had  not  thy  sad  prognostics  filled  me 


CLARA  HOWARD.  163 

with  melancholy,  my  mother's  attention  svould 
not  have  been  excited  to  the  cause  of  my  unea- 
siness. 

I  did  not  conceal  from  her  the  cause.  I 
made  her  pretty  well  acquainted  with  the  his- 
tory of  Mary.  She  was  deeply  interested  in 
the  story  I  told,  and  suggested  many  inqui- 
ries respecting  her,  which  I  had  overlooked. 
She  has  made  me  extremely  anxious  as  to 
some  particulars,  on  which  perhaps  you  can 
give  me  the  desired  information. 

Pray  tell  me  what  you  know  of  the  history 
of  her  family  before  her  father's  leaving  Eu- 
rope. Where  was  he  bom  ?  Where  lived  he  ? 
W^hat  profession  did  he  follow  ?  What  know 
you  of  the  history  of  Mary's  mother? 

Excuse  me  for  confining  myself,  at  pre- 
sent, to  these  inquiries.  Tell  me  all  you 
know  on  this  subject,  and  I  will  then  acquaint 
you  with  the  motive  of  my  inquisitiveness. 
I  shall  expect  to  hear  from  you,  on  Thurs- 
day morning. 

Adieu.  Be  careful  of  thyself,  if  thou  lov- 
est  thy 

CLAaxi. 


f 


CLARA  HOWARD. 


LETTER  XX. 


TO  CLARA  HOWARD. 

Philadelphia,  May  8. 

I  AM  at  a  loss,  dear  girl,  to  account  for 
thy  questions,  but  I  will  answer  them  to  the 
utmost  of  my  power.  The  same  questions 
frequently  occurred  to  me,  in  my  intercourse 
with  the  Wilmots.  It  was  natural,  you  know, 
to  suppose  that  they  had  left  relations  in  their 
native  country,  with  whom  it  might  be  of 
some  advantage  to  renew  their  intercourse. 

Mary  was  ten  years  old,  when  her  father 

took  up  his  abode  in  Delaware,  but  he  had 

been  already  five  years  in  the  country-,  so  that, 

you  will  easily  perceive,  she  was  not  likely  to 

possess  much  personal  knowledge  of  events 

previous  to  their   voyage.       Her  mother's 
o  2 


166  CLARA  HOWARD. 

death  happened  just  before  their  removal  t» 
Wilmington.  It  appears  to  have  been  the 
chief  cause  of  that  removal. 

Your  letter  has  put  me  on  the  task  of  re- 
collection. I  am  sorry  that  I  am  able  to  col- 
lect and  arrange  very  few  circumstances ;  such 
as  you  demand.  The  Wilmots  were  either 
very  imperfectly  acquainted  with  the  history 
of  their  parents,  or  were  anxious  to  bury  their 
history  in  oblivion.  The  first  was  probably 
the  situation  of  the  son,  but  I  have  often  sus- 
pected, from  the  contradictions  and  evasions 
of  which  Mary  was  at  different  times  guilty, 
v/hen  this  subject  was  talked  of  between  us, 
that  the  daughter  pretended  ignorance,  for  the 
sake  of  avoiding  the  mortification  of  telling 
the  truth.  When  once  urged  pretty  closely 
on  this  head,  she,  indeed,  told  me,  the  sub- 
ject was  a  painful  one  to  her;  that  she  knew 
nothing  of  her  European  kindred  which  would 
justify  the  searching  them  out;  and  that  she 
would  hold  herself  obliged  to  me,  if  I  never 
recalled  past  events  to  her  remembrance.  Af- 
ter this  injunction  I  was  silent,  but,  in  the 
course  of  numberless  conversations,  after- 
wards, hints  were  casually  dropped,  which 


) 


CLARA  HOWARD.  167 

afforded  me,  now  and  then,  a  glimpse  into 
their  family  histor}'. 

When  Mary  spoke  of  her  father,  it  was 
always  with  reverence  for  his  talents,  gratitude 
for  his  indulgence  to  her,  and  compassion  for 
that  frailty  of  character,  which  made  him  seek 
in  dissipation,  relief  from  sorrow  on  account 
of  the  death  of  a  wife  whom  he  adored  ;  and  a 
refuge,  as  she  sometimes  obscurely  intimated, 
from  some  calamity  or  humiliation,  which 
befel  him  in  his  native  country. 

My  friend's  heart  always  throbbed,  and 
her  eyes  were  filled  with  tears,  whenever  her 
mother  was  remembered.  She  took  a  mourn- 
ful pleasure  in  describing  her  mother's  person 
and  manners,  in  which,  she  was  prone  to 
believe,  all  human  excellence  was  comprized. 
Her  own  melancholy  temper  and  gloomy  des- 
tiny, she  imagined  to  have  descended  to  her 
by  inheritance,  and  she  once  allowed  me  to 
collect  from  her  discourse,  that  her  mother  had 
died  the  victim  of  some  early  and  heavy  dis- 
appointment. 

We  were  once,  the  winter  before  last, 
conversing,  by  an  evening  fire,  on  that  most 
captivating  topic,   ourselves.      Having  said 


168  CLARA  HOWARD. 

something  on  my  attachment  to  my  counti}', 
and  especially  to  the  hill-side  where  I  first 
drew  breath,  and  inquired  into  her  feelings 
in  relation  to  the  same  objects, 

Alas !  said  she,  I  should  be  puzzled  to  say 
to  what  country  I  belong.  I  am  a  German  by 
my  father;  English  by  my  mother.  I  was 
born  at  an  hotel  in  Paris,  I  was  nursed  by  a 
woman  of  Nice,  where  I  passed  my  infancy ; 
and  my  youth  and  womanhood,  and  probably 
my  whole  life,  belong  to  America.  Now, 
what  is  the  country,  Germany,  England, 
France,  Italy  or  America,  which  I  have  a 
right  to  call  my  own.  The  earliest  object  of 
my  recollection  is  the  face  of  my  nurse,  who 
accompanied  us  in  all  our  wanderings,  and 
who  died  just  before  my  father,  on  Brandy- 
wine.  The  olives,  the  orange  walks,  and  the 
sea-shore  scenery  of  Savoy,  are  still  fresh  in 
my  remembrance.  Should  I  visit  them  again, 
no  doubt  my  feelings  would  be  strongly  af- 
fected, but  I  never  expect  to  visit  them. 

But  your  father's,  your  mother's  natal  spot, 
would  have  some  charms,  methinks,  to  one  of 
your  sensibility. 


CLARA  HOWARD.  169 

Some  influence,  no  doubt,  the  contempla- 
tion would  have,  but  no  charms.  Strange,  if  I 
should  ever  have  an  opportunity  of  trying  their 
effect  upon  my  feelings. 

You  are  acquainted,  then,  with  the  birth- 
place of  your  father  and  mother. 

Yes,  I  have  heard  them  described  so  often, 
and  with  such  minuteness,  that  I  should  recog- 
nize them,  I  thin!:,  at  any  distance  of  time. 
My  father  was  born  in  the  Grey-street,  next 
to  the  chapel  of  St.  Anne,  at  Altona.  My  mo- 
ther and  family  have  subsisted,  from  the  days  of 
William  the  Norman,  at  a  spot,  five  miles 
from  Taunton,  in  Devonshire. 

I  was  in  hopes  that  these  particulars  were 
preliminary  to  more  interesting  disclosures, 
but  my  friend  now  changed  the  subject  of  con- 
versation, and  would  not  be  brought  back  to  the 
point  I  wished. 

Mr.  Wilmot  was  a  man  of  liberal  educa- 
tion and  cultivated  taste.  This  appears  from 
the  representations  of  his  daughter,  and  like- 
wise from  several  books,  which  she  preserved 
by  connivance  of  his  creditors,  and  which  are 
enriched  by  many  notes  and  memorandums  in 
her  father's  hand-writing.     These  betoken  an 


170  CLARA  HOWARD. 

enlarged  mind  and  extensiv^e  knowledge.  She 
has,  likewise,  a  sort  of  journal,  kept  by  him 
when  a  mere  youth,  during  two  or  three  years 
residence  in  Bologne,  in  the  character,  as  I 
suspect,  of  a  commercial  agent.  This  journal, 
which  I  have  occasionally  seen,  affords  many 
proofs  of  a  sprightly  and  vigorous  mind. 

This,  my  friend,  is  the  whole  of  my  pre- 
sent recollections  on  this  subject.  I  am  anx- 
ious to  know  what  has  suggested  your  inquiry. 
Is  your  mother  acquainted  with  any  of  the 
family  in  Europe  ?  With  the  history  of  Wilmot 
before  he  came  hither?  Pray  tell  me  all  you 
know  in  your  next. 

Adieu. 

E.  H. 


CLARA  HOWARD. 


LETTER  XXL 


TO  E.  HARTLEY. 


Kew-Yoris;,  May  io. 

As  soon  as  I  had  read  your  letter,  I  hur- 
ried to  my  mother.  All  her  conjectures  are 
ascertained.  A  native  of  Holstein... .Family 
abode  near  Taunton.. ..Victim  of  some  early 
distress.  These  circumstances  place  the  truth 
beyond  controversy.  But  I  will  tell  you  the 
story  with  somewhat  more  order. 

I  told  you  that  my  mother's  curiosity  was 
awakened  by  the  effect  of  your  gloomy  prog- 
nostics. I  told  her  every  thing  respecting  Mary 
Wilmot,  but  her  love  for  you. 

Wilmot....Wilmot....said  she.  An  English 
family.... Came  over  twenty-four  years  ago.  I 
think  I  know  something  of  them.  Their  story 


172  CLARA  HOWARD. 

was  a  singular  one  ;  a  disastrous  one.  I  should, 
like  to  know  more  of  their  history.  I  think 
it  not  improbable  that  these  are  the  same  Wil- 
mots  with  those  with  whose  history  I  am  per- 
fectly acquainted:  Nay,  more,  who  were  no 
very  distant  relations  of  our  own.  Pray  write 
to  Ned,  and  get  from  him  all  he  knows  of  their 
early  adventures.  Inquire  if  the  father  was 
from  Holstein,  and  the  mother  from  Devon- 
shire, and  if  Mary  was  born  at  Paris. 

You  see,  my  friend,  your  letter  has  satis- 
factorily confirmed  these  guesses;  and  now, 
will  I  relate  to  you,  the  early  history  of  this 
family,  in  the  words  of  my  mother.  Mary  will 
be  greatly  astonished  when  she  comes  to  find 
how  much  you  know  of  her  family.... much 
more,  'tis  probable,  than  she  herself  knows..., 
and  to  discover  that  the  nearest  relations  he  has 
in  the  world  is  myself.  Being  alone  with  my 
mother,  on  Thursday  evening,  she  fulfilled  the 
promise  she  had  made,  to  tell  me  all  she  knew 
of  the  Wilmots,  in  these  words  : 

Mary  Anne  was  the  only  daughter  of  my 
father's  only  brother;  consequently  she  was 
my  cousin.  She  was  nearly  of  my  own  age, 
and  being  the  only  child  of  a  man,  respectable 


CLARA  HOWARD.  \7c 

for  birth  and  property,  and  my  near  relation, 
and  particularly  of  my  own  sex,  we  were  inti- 
mately connected  at  an  early  age.  She  lost 
her  mother  in  her  infancy,  and  our  family  hav- 
ing several  daughters,  our  house  was  thought 
more  suited  to  her  education  than  her  father's. 
She  lived  with  me  and  my  sisters  till  she  was 
eighteen  years  of  age,  receiving  from  us,  our 
brothers,  and  our  parents,  exactly  the  same 
treatment  which  a  real  sister  and  daughter  re- 
ceived. 

There  was  no  particular  affection  between 
Mary  and  myself  Our  tempers  did  not  chance 
to  coincide.  Her  taste  led  her  to  one  species 
of  amusement,  and  mine  to  another.  This  dif- 
ference stood  in  the  way  of  that  union  of  inte- 
rests, which,  however,  took  place  between  her 
and  my  elder  sister.  Still,  there  were  few  per- 
sons in  the  world  for  whom  I  had  a  more 
ardent  esteem,  or  more  tender  affection,  than 
for  my  cousm  Mary  Anne.  She  parted  from 
us  at  the  age  of  eighteen,  in  obedience  to  the 
summons  of  her  father,  who  wished  to  place 
her  at  the  head  of  his  household.  We  lived 
in  the  north,  and  Mr.  Lisle  lived  in  Devon- 
shire, so  that  we  had  little  hope  of  any  inter- 


174  CLARA  HOWARD. 

course  but  by  letter.  This  intercourse  was 
very  punctually  maintained  between  her  and 
my  sister,  and  it  was  by  means  of  this  corres- 
pondence, that  we  obtained  the  knowledge  of 
subsequent  events. 

On  leaving  our  family,  my  cousin  entered 
into  a  world  of  strangers ;  a  sphere  very  incon- 
genial  with  her  temper  and  habits.  So  long  a 
separation  had  deprived  the  parental  character 
of  all  those  claims  to  reverence  and  confidence, 
which  are  apt  to  arise  when  the  lives  of  father 
and  daughter  are  spent  under  the  same  roof. 
She  saw  in  my  uncle  a  man,  who,  in  many 
essential  particulars,  both  of  speculation  and 
of  practice,  was  at  variance  with  herself,  and 
to  whom  nature  had  given  prerogatives  which 
her  fearful  temper  foreboded  would  be  oftener 
exerted  to  her  injury  than  benefit.  His  in- 
mates, his  companions,  his  employments,  his 
sports,  were  dissonant  with  all  the  feelings  she 
was  most  accustomed  to  cherish.  In  short, 
her  new  situation  was  in  the  highest  degree 
irksome. 

She  naturally  looked  abroad  for  that  com- 
fort which  she  could  not  find  at  home.  She 
formed  intimacies  with  several  persons  of  her 


1 


CLARA  HOWARD.  175 

own  sex,  among  others,  with  miss  Saunders, 
the  daughter  of  a  Bristol  merchant,  with  whom 
she  spent  as  much  time  as  her  father  would 
allow  her  to  spend.  Her  winter  months  were 
generally  passed  in  the  society  of  that  young 
lady  at  Bristol ;  while  her  friend,  in  summer, 
was  her  guest  in  the  countr}'-. 

It  was  at  the  house  of  Mr.  Saunders  that 
she  became  acquainted  with  Veelmetz,  orWil- 
mot,  a  young  man  of  uncommon  elegance  and 
insinuation.  He  v/as  a  native  of  Germany, 
but  had  received  his  early  education  in  En- 
gland. He  had,  at  this  time,  been  for  two  or 
three  years  chief,  or  confidential  clerk,  in  an 
English  mercantile  house,  at  Bologne,  but 
made  occasional  excursions  on  behalf  of  his 
employerto  the  neighbouring  countries.  Some 
concerns  detained  him  a  few  months  at  Bristol, 
and  being  on  a  familiar  footing  with  the  family 
of  Saunders,  he  there  became  acquainted  with 
my  cousin. 

On  the  first  interview,  my  cousin  was  in 
love  with  the  stranger.  It  is  impossible  to  tell 
how  far  the  laws  of  strict  honour  were  observed 
by  Wilmot  in  his  behaviour  to  my  cousin, 
either  before  or  after  the  discovery  of  her  at- 


\76  CLARA  HOWARD. 

tachment  to  him.  Certain  it  is,  that  his  heart 
was  devoted  to  another  at  the  period  of  his 
interview  with  Mary  Anne  ;  that  she,  at  all 
times,  earnestly  acquitted  him  of  any  duplicity 
or  treachery  towards  her,  and  ascribed  the  un- 
fortunate cause  of  their  mutual  shame  and 
embarrassment  to  some  infatuation ;  in  conse- 
quence of  which  a  man,  who  concealed  not  his 
love  and  his  engagement  to  another,  and  with- 
out the  sanction  or  the  promise  of  marriage,, 
prevailed  on  her  to  forget  her  dignity  and  her 
duty. 

Both  parties  deserved  blame.  Which  de- 
served it  most,  and  how  far  their  guilt  might 
be  extenuated  or  atoned  for  by  the  circum- 
stances attending  it,  it  is  impossible  to  telk 
Mary  Anne  was  a  great,  a  mixed,  and  doubt- 
less, a  faulty  character.  The  world,  in  general, 
was  liberal  of  its  eulogies  on  the  probity,  as 
well  as  on  the  graces  and  talents  of  Wilmot. 
His  subsequent  behaviour  lay  claim  to  some 
praise ;  but  his  fatal  meeting  with  my  cousin, 
proved  that  the  virtue  of  both  was  capable  of 
yielding,  when  the  integrity  of  worse  people 
would  easily  have  stood  firm* 


I 


CLARA  HOWARD.  177 

About  the  same  time,  Wilmot  returned  to 
Bologne,  and  my  cousin  accompanied  her  fa- 
ther to  Paris.  The  lady  to  whom  the  former 
was  betrothed,  was  the  daughter  of  the  princi- 
pal in  that  house,  where  Wilmot  had  long 
been  a  servant,  and  in  which,  in  consequence 
of  his  merits,  he  was  now  shortly  to  become 
a  son  and  partner.    The  nuptial  day  was  fixed. 

Before  the  arrival  of  that  day,  he  wrote  a 
letter  to  Mary  Anne,  acquainting  her  with  his 
present  situation,  reminding  her  that  he  never 
practised  any  fraud  or  concealment  in  his  in- 
tercourse with  her ;  yet,  nevertheless,  offering 
to  come,  and  either  by  an  open  application  to 
her  father,  or  by  a  clandestine  marriage,  pre- 
vent any  evil  that  might  threaten  her  safety  or 
her  reputation. 

This  letter  placed  my  cousin  in  the  most 
distressful  dilemma  that  can  be  conceived. 
Her  heart  was  still  fondly  devoted  to  him  that 
made  this  offer.  A  fair  fame  w^as  precious 
in  her  eyes.  Her  father's  wrath  was  terrible. 
She  knew  that  the  accident,  which  Wilmot  was 
willing  to  provide  against,  would  soon  and  ine- 
vitably befal  her.  Yet,  in  her  answer  to  his  let- 
ter, the  possibility  of  this  accident  was  denied  j 
p2 


178  CLARA  HOWARD. 

her  attachment  was  denied,  and  he  was  ear- 
nestly conjured  to  complete  his  own  happines»- 
and  that  of  a  worthier  woman. 

There  were  many  generous  pleas  by  which 
my  cousin  might  have  accounted  for  her  con- 
duct.. She  knew  that  the  marriage  he  oftered 
would  never  be  crowned  with  her  father's  con- 
sent; that,  on  the  contrary,  his  hatred  and 
vengeance  would  pursue  them  forever.  That 
Wilmot  would  thereby  forfeit  the  honour  al- 
ready plighted  to  another  j  would  inflict  exqui- 
site misery  on  that  other  and  on  himself,  and 
would  forever  cut  himself  off  from  that  road 
to  fortune,  which  had  now  been  opened  to 
him. 

She  was  candid  enough  to  confess  that 
these  considerations,  though  powerful,  did  not 
singly  dictate  her  conduct.  Her  heart  was,  in 
reality,  full  of  grief.  Despondency  and  horror 
took  possession  of  her  whole  soul.  She  hoped 
to  protract  the  discovery  of  her  personal  con- 
dition to  a  very  late  period,  and  then,  when 
further  concealment  was  hopeless,  designed 
to  put  a  violent  end  to  life  and  all  its  cares. 

Meanwhile,  Wilmot's  conscience  being 
somewhat  relieved  by  my  cousin's  answer,  he 


CLARA  HOWARD.  179 

gave  himself  up  without  restraint,  to  the  plea- 
surable prospects  before  him.  The  day  of 
happiness  was  near  at  hand.  He  had  little 
leisure  for  any  thing,  but  the  offices  of  love 
and  tenderness,  and  was  engaged,  on  the  even- 
ing of  a  fine  day,  to  accompany  his  mistress^ 
with  a  numerous  party,  on  a  rural  excursion. 
The  carriage,  ready  to  receive  them,  was  at 
the  door,  and  he  only  waited,  in  a  court  before 
the  house,  till  the  lady  had  adjusted  her  dress 
for  the  occasion. 

His  mistress,  Adela,  having  made  the  re- 
quisite adjustments,  came  out.  She  looked 
around  for  her  lover  in  vain.  Some  accident, 
it  was  easily  imagined,  had  called  him  for  a 
few  moments  away.  She  collected  patience 
to  wait ;  but  she  waited  and  expected  in  vain. 
Night  came,  and  one  day  succeeded  another^ 
but  Wilmot  did  not  appear.  Inquiries  were 
set  on  foot,  and  messengers  were  dispatched, 
but  Wilmot  had  entirely  vanished. 

Some  intelligence  was,  at  last,  gained  of 
him.  It  appeared,  that  while  walking  to  and 
fro  in  the  court,  two  persons  had  came  up  to 
him,  and  after  a  short  dialogue,  had  retired 
with  him  to  an  inn^   There  they  had  been  clo- 


180  CLARA  HOWARD. 

seted  for  a  few  minutes.  After  which  they 
came  forth,  and  mounting  horses  that  stood 
at  the  gate,  hastily  left  the  city  together. 

The  suspense  and  anxiety  which  this  cir- 
cumstance produced  in  the  lady  and  her 
family,  may  be  easily  imagined.  Their  con- 
jectures wandered  from  one  object  to  another, 
without  obtaining  satisfaction.  They  could 
gain  from  all  their  inquiries,  no  knowledge  of 
the  persons  who  had  summoned  the  young  man 
away.  They  inferred  that  the  messengers  were 
the  bearers  of  no  good  tidings;  since  the  atten- 
dants at  the  inn  reported  that  Wilmot's  coun- 
tenance and  motions  betrayed  the  utmost 
consternation,  on  descending  from  the  chamber 
where  the  conference  was  held. 

Their  suspense  was  at  length  terminated  by 
the  return  of  the  fugitive  himself.  Wan,  sor- 
rowful, and  drooping,  an  horseman  languidly 
alighted,  about  ten  days  after  Wilmot's  disap- 
pearance, at  the  gate.  It  was  Wilmot  himself. 
The  family  flocked  about,  eager  to  express 
their  joy,  terror,  and  surprise.  He  received 
their  greetings  with  affected  cheerfulness,  but 
presently  requesting  an  interview  with  Adela„ 
retired  with  her  to  her  closet. 


CLARA  HOWARD.  181 

I  suppose,  my  dear,  you  conjecture  the 
true  cause  of  all  these  appearances.  My  cou- 
sin's secret  was  betrayed,  by  an  unfaithful 
confidant,  to  her  father,  whose  rage,  at  the  dis- 
covery, was  without  bounds.  He  rushed  into 
his  daughter's  presence,  in  a  transport  of  fury, 
and  easily  extorted  from  her  the  author  of  her 
disgrace.  Without  a  moment's  delay,  he  or- 
dered horses,  and  in  company  with  a  friend, 
made  all  possible  haste  to  Bologne.  The 
daughter's  uncertainty  as  to  the  cause  and  ob- 
ject of  his  journey,  was  ended  by  the  return 
of  Mr.  Lisle,  in  company  with  Wilmot.  The 
alternative  offered  to  the  youth,  was  to  meet 
the  father  with  pistols,  or  to  repair  his  child's 
dishonour  by  marriage.  Mr.  Lisle's  impetu- 
osity overbore  all  my  cousin's  opposition,  and 
Wilmot,  the  moment  he  discovered  her  true 
situation,  was  willing  to  repair  the  wrong  to 
the  utmost  of  his  power. 

The  ceremony  being  performed,  Mr* 
Lisle's  pride  was  so  far  satisfied,  but  his  rage 
demanded  nothing  less  than  eternal  separa- 
tion from  his  daughter.  Wilmot  was  obliged 
to  procure  lodgings  in  a  different  quarter,  and 
my  poor  cousin  left  her  father's  presence,  for 


183  CLARA  HOWARD. 

the  last  time,  with  his  curses  ringing  in  her 
ears. 

The  horror  occasioned  by  these  events, 
brought  on  a  premature  labour,  the  fruit  of 
which  did  not  perish,  as  might  have  been  ex- 
pected, but  has  survived  to  this  day,  and  is  no 
other  than  your  Mary  Wilmot. 

Poor  Wilmot  had  an  arduous  office  still  to 
perform.  These  events,  and  his  new  condi- 
tion, were  to  be  disclosed  to  Adela.  This  it 
was  easy  to  do  by  letter,  but  he  rather  chose  to 
do  full  justice  to  his  feelings  in  a  formal  inter- 
view. And  this  was  the  purpose  for  which  he 
returned  to  Bologne. 

It  is  not  possible  to  imagine  a  more  deplo- 
rable situation  than  that  in  which  Wilmot  was 
now  placed.  He  was  torn  forever  from  the 
object  of  his  dearest  affections.  At  the  mo- 
ment when  all  obstacles  were  about  to  dis- 
appear, and  a  few  days  were  to  unite  those 
hearts  which  had  cherished  a  mutual  passion 
from  infancy,  he  was  compelled  to  pay  the 
forfeit  of  past  transgressions,  by  binding  him- 
self to  one  who  had  his  esteem,  but  not  his 
love.  Adela  was  the  pride  and  delight  of 
her  family,  and  Wilmot  had  made  himself 


CLARA  HOWARD.  183 

scarcely  a  less  fervent  interest  in  their  affec- 
tions. That  privilege  he  v^as  now  compelled 
to  resign,  and  by  the  same  act,  to  break  the 
heart  of  the  daughter,  and  excite  unextin- 
guishable  animosity  in  the  bosom  of  her 
friends.  Every  tie  dear  to  the  human  heart, 
was  now  violently  broken:  every  flattering 
scheme  of  honour  and  fortune,  baffled  and 
defeated.  Nor  had  he  the  consolation  to 
reflect,  that  by  these  sacrifices  he  had  secured 
the  happiness  of,  at  least,  one  human  being. 
My  cousin  was  an  involuntary  actor  in  this 
scene.  She  had  been  overborne  by  her 
father's  menaces,  and  even  by  the  expostula- 
tions and  entreaties  of  Wilmot  himself.  The 
irrevocable  ceremony  was  hurried  over  without 
a  moment's  deliberation  or  delay,  and  before 
she  had  time  to  collect  her  thoughts  and  form 
her  resolutions,  to  recover  from  the  first  con- 
fusions of  surprise  and  affright,  she  found 
herself  a  wife  and  a  mother. 

It  was,  perhaps,  merely  the  ver}^  conduct 
which  my  cousin's  feelings  taught  her  to  pur- 
sue, that  secured  her  ultimately  some  portion 
of  happiness.  All  the  fault  of  the  first  trans- 
gression she  imputed  to  herself.   Wilmot  was 


184  CLARA  HOWARD. 

the  innocent  and  injured  person :  she  only  wa^ 
the  injurer  and  criminal.  Those  upbraidings 
which  the  anguish  of  his  heart  might  have 
prompted  him  to  use,  were  anticipated;  dwelt 
upon  and  exaggerated  ;  all  the  miseries  of  this 
alliance  passed,  in  as  vivid  hues  before  her 
imagination,  as  before  his.  These  images 
plunged  her  into  the  most  profound  and  pitia- 
ble sorrow. 

Wilmot's  generosity  would  by  no  means 
admit,  that  her's  only  was  the  guilt.  On  the 
contrary,  his  candour,  awakened  by  her  exam- 
ple, was  busy  in  aggravating  his  own  crime. 
His  heart  was  touched  by  the  proofs  of  her 
extreme  dejection;  her  disinterested  regard. 
He  reflected,  that  her  portion  of  evil  was  at 
least  equal  to  his  own.  Her  sensibility  to 
reputation,  her  sense  ot  right,  her  dependance 
on  her  father  for  the  means  of  subsistence,  her 
attachment  to  her  country  and  kindred,  all 
contributed  to  heighten  her  peculiar  calamity, 
since  she  believed  her  fame  to  be  blasted  for- 
ever; since  her  conscience  reproached  her 
with  all  the  guilt  of  their  intercourse  ;  since 
her  father  had  sworn  never  to  treat  her 
as  his  child;  since  she  had  lost,  in  her  own 


I 


CLARA  HOWARD.  185 

opinion,  the  esteem  of  all  her  relations  and 
friends,  and  solemnly  vowed  never  to  set  foot 
in  her  native  countr}-. 

Wilmot's  efforts  to  console  his  wife,  pro- 
duced insensibly  a  salutary  effect  on  his  own 
feelings.  Being  obliged  to  search  out  topics 
of  comfort  for  her  use,  they  were  equally  con- 
ducive to  his  own,  and  a  habit  of  regarding 
objects  on  their  brightest  side ;  of  considering 
my  cousin  as  merely  a  subject  of  tenderness 
and  compassion ;  somewhat  abated  the  edge 
of  his  own  misfortunes. 

My  father  took  infinite,  though  unsolicited 
pains  to  reconcile  the  parent  and  child,  but 
my  uncle  could  not  be  prevailed  on  to  do  more 
than  allow  Wilmot  a  small  annuity,  with  which 
he  retired  to  the  town  of  Nice,  and  by  a  re- 
cluse and  frugal  life,  subsisted,  if  not  with  ele- 
gance, at  least  with  comfort.  Mary  Anne  was 
extremely  backward  to  cultivate  the  society 
of  her  old  friends.  Their  good  offices  she 
took  pains  to  repel  and  elude,  and  her  only 
source  of  consolation,  with  regard  to  them,  ap- 
peared to  be  the  hope  that  they  had  entirely 
forgotten  her.  We,  her  cousins,  were  not, 
however,  deterred  by  her  repulses,  but  did 


196  CLARA  HOWARD. 

every  thing,  in  our  power,  to  befriend  her 
cause  with  her  inexorable  father,  and  to  im- 
prove her  domestic  situation.  We  had  the 
pleasure  to  find  that  W^ilmot,  though  his  viva- 
city, his  ambitious  and  enterprizing  spirit  was 
flown,  was  an  affectionate  husband  and  provi- 
dent father. 

At  my  uncle's  death  we  had  hopes  that 
Mary  Anne's  situation  would  be  bettered.  His 
will,  however,  bequeathed  all  his  estate  to  his 
nephew,  my  elder  brother,  and  the  Wilmots 
were  deprived  even  of  that  slender  stipend 
which  they  had  hitherto  enjoyed.  This  in- 
justice was,  in  some  degree,  repaired  by  my 
brother,  who,  as  soon  as  the  affairs  of  the  de- 
ceased were  arranged,  sent  a  very  large  pre- 
sent to  Wilmot.  They  did  not  make  us 
acquainted  v\  ith  the  motives  of  their  new  reso- 
lutions. We  were  merely  informed,  indirect- 
ly, that  on  the  receipt  of  this  sum,  Wilmot 
repaired  with  his  family  to  some  port  in 
France,  and  embarked  for  the  colonies.  Time 
insensibly  wore  away  the  memory  of  these 
transactions,  and  'tis  a  long  time  since  my 
sisters  and  I  have  been  accustomed,  in  review- 
ing   past    events,    to   inquire    "  What    has 


CLARA  HOWARD.  1P7 

become  of  poor  Mrs.  Wilmot  and  her  chil- 
dren?" 

Such,  Edward,  was  my  mother's  relation. 
Is  it  not  an  affecting  one.  And  is,  indeed, 
thy  jMarj'  the  remnant  of  this  family?  They 
had  several  children,  but  most  of  them  found 
an  early  grave  in  Europe,  and  the  eldest,  it 
seems,  is  the  sole  surv^ivor.  We  must  make 
haste,  my  friend,  to  raise  her  from  obscurity 
and  make  her  happy. 

Is  it  not  likely  that  Mar}'  knows  nothing  of 
her  mother's  historj^?  Being  only  ten  years 
old  at  her  death,  the  child  would  scarcely  be 
made  the  confidant  of  such  transactions.  The 
father,  it  is  likelv,  would  be  equalh'  prone  to 
silence,  on  such  a  topic. 

Our  fortune  is  strongly  influenced  by 
our  ignorance.  W^hat  can  be  more  lonely  and 
forlorn  than  the  life  thy  poor  friend  has  led. 
Yet  had  she  returned  to  her  mother's  native 
country,  and  disclosed  her  relation  to  the  pre- 
sent mistress  of  Littklisle^  she  would  have  been 
instantly  admitted  to  the  house  and  bosom  of 
SI  fond  mother. 

My  uncle,  to  whom  I  told  you  the  estate 
of  Mary's  grandfather  was  bequeathed,  died 


188  CLARA  HOWARD.  ' 

unmarried  and  left  this  property  to  the  sister, 
who  was  the  intimate  of  JMary  Anne,  and  who 
never  lost  the  tenderest  respect  for  her  youthful 
friend.  This  happened  some  years  after  Wil- 
mot's  voyage  to  the  colonies.  My  aunt  being 
childless  anda  widow,  was  extremely  solicitous 
to  discover  Mary  Anne's  retreat,  and  restore 
her,  or  her  children  to  at  least,  a  part  of  that 
property,  to  the  whole  of  which  their  title  was, 
strictly  speaking,  better  than  her  own.  For 
this  end,  she  made  a  great  many  inquiries  in 
America,  but  none  of  them  met  with  success. 
I  have  written  a  long  letter.  Yet  I  could 
add  much  more,  were  1  not  afraid  of  losing 
this  post.  So  let  me  hear  thy  comments  on 
all  these  particulars,  and  tell  me,  especially, 
when  I  may  certainly  expect  thy  return. 
Adieu 

Clara. 


CLARA  HOWARD. 


LETTER  XXII. 


TO  CLARA  HOWARD. 

Philadelphia,  May  11. 

1  HANKS,  a  thousand  thanks,  my  belov- 
ed friend,  for  thy  story.  It  has  absorbed  and 
overwhelmed  every  other  thought  and  feeling. 
Since  I  received  it,  I  have  done  nothing  but 
peruse  and  ponder  on  thy  letter.  It  hasopened 
cheerful  prospects  for  my  poor  friend.  Shall 
we  not  see  her  restored  to  her  native  country  ; 
to  her  original  rank,  and  the  affluence  to  which 
she  is  entitled  by  her  birth,  her  education  and 
her  former  sufferings  ?  I  trust,  we  shall. 

'Tis  impossible  to  guess  how  far  she  is  ac- 
<]uainted  with  the  histor}"  of  her  parents:  but 
that  and  every  other  doubt  will,  I  hope,  spee- 
dily be  put  to  flight. 

o  2 


190  CLARA  HOWARD. 

I  hope  that  this  is  the  last  letter  I  shall 
have  occasion  to  write  to  you.  The  next  time 
I  shall  address  you,  will  be  through  no  such 
wild  and  ambiguous  medium. 

May  I  find  my  Clara  all  gentleness;  all 
condescension;  all  love.  So,  with  all  his 
heart,  prays  her 

Edward. 


CLARA  HOWARD. 


LETTER  XXIII. 


TO  E.  HARTLEY. 


New-York,  May  11. 

JdY  the  calm  tenor  of  this  letter  you  will 
hardly  judge  of  the  state  of  my  mind  before  I 
sat  down  to  write.  To  describe  it  would  be 
doing  wrong  to  myself  and  to  you.  I  am  not 
anxious  to  pass  for  better  than  I  am ;  to  hide 
my  weakness,  or  to  dwell  upon  my  folly.  In 
this  letter  to  paint  the  struggles  between  rea- 
son and  passion,  would  be  making  more  ardu- 
ous that  task  which  I  must  assign  to  you. 

I  have  formerly  concealed  these  struggles. 
My  motive  was  not  shame.  I  aimed  not  to 
shun  contempt,  by  concealing  my  defects ;  for, 
alas !  the  spirit  with  which  I  had  to  deal,  mo- 
delled his  opinions  by  a  standard  different  from 


192  CLARA  HOWARD. 

mine.  That  which  was  selfish  and  base  in  my 
eyes,  was  praise-worthy  in  his.  I  passed  for 
obdurate  and  absurd,  in  proportion  as  I  acted 
in  a  manner  which  appeared  to  me  generous 
and  just. 

I  concealed  these  struggles,  because  I 
hated  to  reflect  upon  my  own  faults  ;  because 
they  were  past,  and  the  better  thoughts  that 
succeeded  were  sources  of  complacency  too 
precious  to  be  lost,  and  attained  and  preserved 
with  so  much  difficulty,  that  to  review  the  con- 
flicts which  it  cost  me  to  gain  them,  would 
hazard  their  loss. 

Thus  it  is,  at  present.  I  write  to  you,  not 
to  give  utterance  and  new  existence  to  anguish 
no  longer  felt.  I  write  to  you  to  tell  my  pre- 
sent views,  and  they  cannot  waver  or  change. 

My  friend,  the  bearer  of  this  is  your  Mary. 
She  is  not  happy.  She  is  not  anothers.  She 
is  poor,  but  good,  and  no  doubt  as  much  de- 
voted to  you  as  ever.  Need  I  point  out  to 
you  the  road  which  you  ought  to  take  !  Need 
I  enforce,  by  arguments,  that  duty  which  com- 
pels you  to  consult  her  happiness,  by  every 
honest  means  ? 


CLARA  HOWARD.  153 

Could  I  but  inspire  you,  my  friend,  with 
the  sentiments  that  now  possess  my  heart: 
could  I  but  make  your  convictions  at  once 
just  and  strong,  and  convert  you  into  a  cheer- 
ful performer  of  your  duty,  I  should,  indeed, 
be  happy. 

You  will  wonder  by  what  means  Mary  has 
been  made  known  to  me.  I  will  tell  you.  I 
went  to  pay  a  visit,  long  since  due,  to  Mrs. 
Etheridge.  It  was  but  yesterday.  After 
cursory  discourse  she  mentioned  that  she  ex- 
pected in  a  few  minutes  to  see  a  lady,  who 
was  going  on  the  morrow  to  Philadelphia,  I 
had  written  to  you,  and  was  not  unwilling  to 
make  use  of  this  opportunity.  What,  I  asked, 
is  her  name  ?  Her  character  ?  Her  situation  ? 

Mary  Wilmot,  She  has  just  come  from 
New-Haven,  where  she  has  passed  the  winter 
with  a  friend.  She  is  amiable,  but  unfortu- 
nate. 

You  will  imagine  with  what  emotions  I 
listened  to  these  words.  For  some  minutes 
I  was  too  much  surprised  to  think  or  to  speak 
clearly.  My  companion  noticed  my  emotion, 
but  before  she  could  inquire  into  the  cause,  a 


194  CLARA  HOWARD. 

visitant  was  announced,  and  Miss  Wilmot  her- 
self entered  the  room.  Being  introduced  to 
each  other,  my  name  occasioned  as  much  sur- 
prise and  embarrassment  as  hers  had  given  to 
me.  The  interview  ended  abruptly,  but  not 
till  I  had  so  far  collected  my  thoughts,  as  to 
request  her  to  be  the  bearer  of  a  letter.  She 
mentioned  the  place  where  it  might  be  left 
and  we  parted.  * 

I  ought  to  have  acted  in  a  different  man- 
ner. I  ought  to  have  asked  her  company 
home,  have  sought  her  confidence,  have  un- 
bosomed myself  to  her,  and  removed  every 
obstacle  to  her  union  with  you,  which  might 
arise  from  an  erring  judgment  or  an  unwise 
generosity. 

But  I  was  unfitted  for  this  by  the  sudden- 
ness of  our  interview.  I  had  not  time  to  sub- 
due those  trembling  and  mixed  feelings  which 
the  sight  of  her  produced,  before  she  with- 
drew, and  I  had  not  courage  enough  to  visit 
her  at  her  lodgings,  and  be  the  bearer  of  my 
own  letter.  So  much  the  more  arduous  is  the 
task  which  belongs  to  you.  My  deficiencies 
must  be  supplied  by  you.     Act  uprightly  and 


GLARA  HOWARD.  193 

ingenuously,  my  friend,  I  entreat  you.  Seek 
her  presence,  and  shew  her  this  and  every 
other  letter  from  me.  Offer  her,  beseech  her, 
compel  her,  to  accept  your  vows. 

Accuse  me  not  of  fickleness.  Acquit  me 
of  mean  and  ungenerous  behaviour.  Dream 
not  that  reasoning  or  entreaty  will  effect  any 
change  in  my  present  sentiments.  I  love  you, 
Edward,  as  I  ought  to  love  you.  I  love  your 
happiness  ;  your  virtue.  I  resign  you  to  this 
good  girl  as  to  one  who  deserves  you  more 
than  I ;  whose  happiness  is  more  dependent 
on  the  affections  of  another  than  mine  is. 
What  passion  is  now  wanting  in  you  time  will 
shortly  supply.  In  such  a  case,  you  must  and 
will  act  and  feel  as  you  ought. 

Let  me  not  hear  from  you  till  you  have 
seen  her.  I  know  whence  will  arise  the  failure 
of  your  efforts  on  such  an  interview.  If  she 
withstand  your  eloquence,  it  will  be  because 
you  have  betrayed  your  cause,  or  because  she 
acts  from  a  romantic  and  groundless  gene- 
rosity with  regard  to  me.  The  last  obstacle, 
it  will  be  my  province  to  remove.  I  will 
write  to  her,  and  convince  her  that  by  reject- 


196  CLARA  HOWARD. 

ing  you  on  my  account  she  does  me  injury  and 
not  benefit,  and  is  an  enemy  to  your  happiness  ; 
for  while  Mary  lives,  and  is  not  bound  to 
another,  I  will  never  be  to  you  any  thing  but 
Your  friend, 

C.  H. 


CLARA  HOWARD, 


LETTER  XXIV. 


TO  CLARA  HOWARD. 

Philadelphia,  May  13. 

MY  FRIEND, 

I  DO  not  mean  to  reason  with  you.  When 
I  tell  you  that  you  are  wrong,  I  am  far  from 
expecting  your  assent  to  my  assertion.  I  say 
it  not  in  a  tone  of  bitterness  or  deprecation. 
I  am  calm,  in  this  respect,  as  yourself.  There 
is  nothing  to  ruffle  my  calm.  We  fluctuate 
and  arc  impatient,  only  when  doubtful  of  the 
future.  Our  fate  being  sealed,  and  ^n  end 
being  put  to  suspense  and  to  doubt,  the  pas- 
sions are  still.  Sedateness  and  tranquillity  at 
least  are  ours. 

There  is  nothing,  I  repeat,  to  ruffle  my 
calm.     I  am  not  angry  with  you,  for  I  kno v/ 


198  CLARA  HOWARD. 

the  purity  and  rectitude  of  your  motives. 
Your  judgment  only  is  misguided,  but  that 
is  no  source  of  impatience  or  repining  to  me. 
It  is  beyond  my  power,  or  that  of  time,  to 
rectify  your  error. 

I  do  not  pity  you.  You  aspire  to  true  hap- 
piness, the  gift  of  self-approbation  and  of  vir- 
tuous forbearance.  You  have  adopted  the 
means  necessary  to  this  end,  and  the  end  is 
gained.  Why  then  should  I  pity  you  ?  You 
would  not  derive  more  happiness  from  a  dif- 
ferent decision.  Another  would,  indeed,  be 
more  happy,  but  you  would,  perhaps,  be  less. 
At  any  rate,  your  enjoyments  would  not  be 
greater  than  they  now  are  ;  for  what  gratifica- 
tion can  be  compared  to  that  arising  from  the 
sens-  of  doing  as  we  ought  ? 

*  :)elieve  you  in  the  wrong,  and  I  tell  you 
so.  It  is  proper  that  the  truth  should  be  known. 
It  is  proper  that  my  opinion,  and  the  grounds 
of  it  should  be  known  to  you.  Not  that  after 
this  disclosure,  you  will  think  or  act  differently. 
Of  that  I  have  not  the  least  hope. 

You  are  wrong,  Clara.  You  study,  it  seems, 
the  good  of  others.  You  desire  the  benefit  of 
this  girl;  and  since  her  happiness  lies  in  being 


CLARA  HOWARD.  199 

united  to  me,  and  in  possessing  my  affections, 
you  wish  to  unite  us,  and  to  transfer  to  her  my 
love. 

It  cannot  be  done.  IMarry  her  I  may,  but 
I  shall  not  love  her.  I  cannot  love  her.  This 
incapacity,  you  will  think  argues  infirmity  and 
vice  in  me,  and  lessens  me  in  your  esteem.  It 
ought  not  to  produce  this  effect.  It  is  a  proof 
of  neither  wickedness  nor  folly.  I  cannot  love 
her,  because  my  affections  are  already  devoted 
to  one  more  attractive  and  more  excellent  than 
she. 

She  has  my  revei"ence.  If  wedlock  unites 
us,  my  fidelity  will  never  be  broken.  I  will 
Avatch  over  her  safety  with  unfailing  solicitude. 
She  shall  share  every  feeling  and  thought.  The 
ties  of  the  tenderest  friendship  shall  be  hers, 
but. ...nothing  more. 

You  will  say  that  more  is  due  to  her ;  that 
a  just  man  will  add  to  every  office  of  a  friend 
the  sanction  of  ineffable  passion.  I  will  not 
discuss  with  you  the  propriety  of  loving  my 
wife^  when  her  moral  and  intellectual  excel- 
lence is  unquestionable,  and  when  all  her  love 
is  bestowed  upon  me.  I  will  only  repeat,  that 
passion  will  never  be  felt. 


CLARA  HOWARD. 

What  then  will  be  the  fruit  of  marriage  ? 
Nothing  but  woe  to  her  whom  you  labour,  by 
uniting  us,  to  make  happy.  You  rely,  how- 
ever, on  the  influence  of  time  and  intercourse 
to  beget  that  passion  which  is  now  wanting. 
And  think  you  that  this  girl  will  wed  a  man 
v.'ho  loves  her  not  ? 

She  never  will.  Our  union  is  impractica- 
ble, not  from  opposition  or  refusal  on  my  side, 
but  on  hers.  As  to  me,  my  concurrence  shall 
be  fuD,  cheerful,  zealous.  Argument  and  im- 
portunity will  not  be  wanting.  If  they  fail, 
you  will  ascribe  their  failure  to  my  coldness, 
ambiguity  or  artifice,  or  to  mistaken  genero- 
sity in  her  with  regard  to  you.  The  last  mo- 
tive, after  due  representations,  will  not  exist. 
The  former  cause  may  possess  some  influence, 
fcr  I  shall  act  with  scrupulous  sincerity.  I 
shall  counterfeit  no  passion  and  no  warmth. 
'Ihe  simple  and  unembellished  truth  shall  be 
told  to  her,  and  this  I  know  will  be  an  insur- 
mountable impediment. 

But  suppose,  for  a  moment,  this  obstacle 
to  disappear,  and  that  Mary  is  happv  as  the 
wife  of  one  who  esteems  her,  indeed,  but  loves 
her  not.     Your  end  is  accomplished.     You 


CLARA  HOWARD.  201 

proceed  to  reap  the  fruits  of  disinterested  vir- 
tue, and  contemplate  the  felicity  which  is  your 
own  work. 

This  girl  is  the  only  one  of  God's  creatures 
worthy  of  benevolence.  No  other  is  entitled 
to  the  sacrifice  of  your  inclination.  None 
there  are  in  whose  happiness  you  find  a  recom- 
pence  for  evils  and  privations  befalling  your- 
self. 

As  to  me,  I  am  an  inert  and  insensible 
atom,  or  I  move  in  so  remote  a  sphere  that 
my  pains  or  pleasures  are  Independent  of  any 
will  or  exertion  of  yours.  But  no  ;  that  is  a 
dignity  of  which  I  must  not  boast.  I  am  so  far 
sunk  into  depravit}',  that  all  my  desires  are  the 
instigations  of  guilt,  and  all  my  pleasures  those 
of  iniquity.  Duty  tells  you  to  withstand  and 
to  thwart,  not  to  gratify  my  wishes. 

I  love  you,  and  my  happiness  depends  upon 
your  favour.  Without  you,  or  with  another, 
I  can  know  no  joy.  But  this,  in  your  opinion, 
is  folly  and  perverseness.  I'o  aspire  to  your 
favour,  when  it  is  beyond  my  reach,  is  crimi- 
nal infatuation.  Not  to  love  her  who  loves  me, 
and  whose  happiness  depends  upon  my  love, 

is,  you  think,  cruel  and  unjust.  Be  it  so.  Great 
R  2 


202  CLARA  HOWARD. 

indeed,  is  my  demerit.  Worthless  and  de- 
praved am  I,  but  not  single  in  iniquity  and 
wretchedness  ;  for  the  rule  is  fallacious  that  is 
not  applicable  to  all  others  in  the  same  circum- 
stances. That  conduct  which  in  me  is  culpa- 
ble, is  no  less  culpable  in  others.  Am  I  cruel 
and  unjust,  in  refusing  my  love  to  one  that 
claims  it  ?  So  are  you,  whose  refusal  is  no  less 
obstinate  as  to  me,  as  mine  with  respect  to 
another;  and  who  hearkens  not  to  claims  upon 
your  sympathy,  as  reasonable  as  those  of  Mary 
on  mine. 

And  how  is  it  that  miss  W^ilmot's  merits 
tower  so  far  above  minef  By  placing  her 
happiness  in  gaining  affections  which  are  ob- 
stinately withheld  ;  by  sacrificing  the  duty  she 
owes  herself,  her  fellow-creatures,  and  her 
God,  to  grief,  because  the  capricious  feelings 
of  another  have  chosen  a  different  object  of 
devotion,  does  she  afford  no  proof  of  infatu- 
ation and  perverseness?  Is  she  not  at  least 
sunk  to  a  level  with  me? 

But  Mary  Wilmot  and  I  are  not  the  only 
persons  affected  by  your  decision.  There  is 
another  more  entitled  to  the  affections  of  this 
woman  than  I,  because  he  Iqves  her;  because, 


CLARA  HOWARD.  205 

in  spite  of  coldness,  poverty,  and  personal 
defects  j  in  spite  of  repulse  from  her,  the  aver- 
sion of  his  family,  and  the  inticements  of  those 
to  whom  his  birth,  fortune,  and  exterior  ac- 
complishments have  made  him  desirable,  con- 
tinues to  love  her.  With  regard  to  this  man 
is  she  not  exactly  in  the  same  relation  as  I  am  to 
her?  Is  it  not  her  duty  to  consult  his  happi- 
ness, and  no  longer  to  oppose  his  laudable  and 
generous  wishes  ?  For  him  and  for  me,  your 
benevolence  sleeps.  With  regard  to  us  you 
have  neither  consideration  nor  humanity. 
They  are  all  absorbed  in  the  cause  of  one, 
whose  merits,  whose  claim  to  your  sympathy 
and  aid,  if  it  be  not  less,  is  far  from  being 
greater  than  Sedley's  or  mine. 

My  path  is,  indeed,  plain.  I  mean  to  visit 
miss  Wilmot ;  but  before  I  see  her,  I  shall 
transmit  to  her  all  the  letters  that  have  passed 
between  you  and  me  on  this  subject,  and  par- 
ticularly a  copy  of  this.  She  shall  not  be  de- 
ceived. She  shalljudgewith  all  the  materials  of 
a  right  judgment  before  her.  I  am  prepared 
to  devote  myself  to  her  will ;  to  join  my  fate 
to  hers  to-morrow.  I  do  not  fear  any  lessening 
of  my  reverence  for  her  virtues,  of  that  tender- 


204  CLARA  HOWARD. 

ness  which  will  be  her  due,  and  which  it  be- 
comes hhn  to  feel  in  whose  hands  is  deposited 
the  weal  or  woe  of  a  woman  truly  excellent. 
We  have  wherewith  to  secure  the  blessings 
of  competence.  With  that  we  will  seek  the 
shores  of  the  Ohio,  and  devote  ourselves  to 
rural  affairs.  You  and  yours  I  shall  strive  to 
forget.  Justice  to  niy  wife  and  to  myself,  will 
require  this  at  my  hand.     Adieu. 

E.  H. 


CLARA  HOWARD, 


LETTER  XXV. 


TO  MARY  WILMOT. 

Philadelphia,  May  14. 
I  AM  impatient  to  see  you,  and  assure 
myself  from  your  own  lips,  of  your  welfare  ; 
but  there  is  a  necessity  for  postponing  my 
visit  till  to-morrow  evening.  Then  I  will  see 
you ;  meanwhile,  read  the  inclosed  papers. 
One  is  a  narrative  of  occurrences  since  the 
date  of  my  last  letter  to  you  from  Hatfield. 
The  rest  are  letters  that  have  been  written  to 
miss  Howard,  or  received  from  her,  down  to 
the  present  hour.  Read  them,  and  reflect 
deeph'  and  impartially  on  their  contents.  They 
require  no  preface  or  commentarv.  Make  up 
your  mind  bv  evening,  when  I  will  attend  you 
with  an  heart  overflowing  with  the  affection  of 


206  CLARA  HOWARD. 

a  friend,  and  prepared  to  perform,  with  zeal 
and  cheerfulness,  whatever  the  cause  of  your 
felicity  requires  from 

E.  IL 


CLARA  HOWARD. 


LETTER  XXVI. 


TO  MISS  HOWARD, 


Philadelphia,  May  15. 

I  SIT  down  to  relate  what,  perhaps,  will 
afford  you  pain  instead  of  pleasure.  I  know  not 
whether  I  ought  to  give  you  pain,  by  this  recital. 
Having  no  longer  the  power  of  living  for  my 
own  happiness,  I  had  wrought  up  my  mind 
to  the  fervent  wish  of  living  for  the  sake  of 
another.  I  found  consolation  in  the  thought 
of  being  useful  to  a  human  being. 

Now  my  condition  is  forlorn  and  dreary. 
That  sedate  and  mixed  kind  of  happiness,  on 
which  I  had  set  my  wishes,  is  denied  to  me. 
My  last  hope,  meagre  and  poor  as  it  was,  is 
extinguished  forever.  The  fire  that  glowed 
in  my  bosom,  languishes.     I  am  like  one  let 


208  CLARA  HOWARD. 

loose  upon  a  perilous  sea,  without  rudder  or 
sail. 

I  have  made  preparation  to  leave  this  city 
to-morrow,  by  the  dawn  of  day,  on  a  journey 
from  which  I  neither  wish  nor  expect  to  return. 
I  at  this  moment  anticipate  the  dawn  of  com- 
fort, from  the  scenes  of  the  wilderness  and  of 
savage  life.  I  begin  to  adopt,  with  seriousness, 
a  plan  which  has  often  occurred  to  my  juve- 
nile reverits. 

In  my  uncle's  parlour  there  hangs  a  rude 
outline  of  the  continent  of  North- America. 
Many  an  hour  have  I  gazed  upon  it,  and  indulg- 
ed  that  romantic  love  of  enterprize,  for  which  I 
have  ever  been  distinguished.  My  eye  used 
to  leap  from  the  shore  of  Ontario,  to  the  ob- 
scure rivulets  which  form,  by  their  conflux,  the 
Allegheny.  This  have  I  pursued  through  all 
its  windings,  till  its  stream  was  lost  in  that  of  the 
Ohio.  Along  this  river  have  I  steered  and 
paddled  my  canoe  of  bark,  many  hundreds  of 
leagues,  till  the  Missisippi  was  attained.  Down 
that  mighty  current  I  allowed  myself  to  be  pas- 
sively borne,  till  the  mouths  of  Missouri  opened 
to  my  view.  A  more  arduous  task,  and  one  hi- 
therto unattcmpted,  then  remained  for  me.  In 


CLARA  HOWARD.  209 

the  ardours  of  my  fancy,  all  perils  and  hardships 
were  despised,  and  I  boldly  adventured  to 
struggle  against  the  current  of  Missouri,  to 
combat  the  dangers  of  an  untried  navigation, 
of  hostile  tribes,  and  unknown  regions. 

Having  gained  the  remotest  sources  of  the 
river,  I  proceeded  to  drag  my  barque  over 
mountains  and  rocks,  till  I  lighted  upon  the 
vallies  and  streams  that  tend  to  the  north  and 
west.  On  one  of  these  I  again  embarked. 
The  rivulets  insensibly  swelled  into  majestic 
streams.  Lurking  sands  and  overhanging 
cliffs  gradually  disappeared,  and  a  river  flowed 
beneath  me,  as  spacious  in  its  breadth  and 
depth,  and  wandering  through  as  many  realms, 
as  the  Wolga  or  the  Oronoco.  After  a  tedious 
navigation  of  two  thousand  miles,  I  at  last  en^. 
tered  a  bay  of  the  ocean,  and  descried  the 
shores  of  the  great  Pacific.  This  purpose 
being  gained,  I  was  little  anxious  to  return, 
and  allowed  my  fancy  to  range  at  will  over  the 
boundless  field  of  contingencies,  by  some  of 
which  I  might  be  transported  across  the  ocean 
to  China,  or  along  the  coast  to  the  dominions 
of  the  Spaniards. 


310  CLARA  HOWARD. 

This  scheme,  suspended  and  forgotten  for 
awhile,  I  have  now  resumed.  To-morrow  I  go 
hence,  in  company  with  a  person  who  holds 
an  high  rank  in  the  Spanish  districts  westward 
of  the  Missis ippi. 

You  will  not  receive  this  letter,  or  be  ap- 
prised of  my  intentions,  till  after  I  am  gone.  I 
shall  dispatch  it  at  the  moment  of  my  leaving 
this  city.  I  shall  not  write  to  Mr.  Howard. 
I  want  not  his  aid  or  his  counsel.  I  know  that 
his  views  are  very  different  from  mine.  I  shall 
awaken  opposition  and  remonstrance,  which 
will  answer  no  end  but  to  give  me  torment  and 
inquietude.  To  you  I  leave  the  task  of  inform- 
ing him  of  my  destiny,  or  allow  him,  if  you 
please,  to  be  wholly  unacquainted  with  it. 
Either  conduct  is  indifferent  to  me. 

But  there  is  one  in  whose  welfare  you  con- 
descend to  take  some  interest,  and  of  whom  I 
am  able  to  communicate  some  tidings.  Some 
commands  which  you  laid  upon  me  in  relation 
to  Mary  have  been  fulfilled,  and  I  shall  now 
acquaint  you  with  the  result. 

She  sent  me  your  letter  not  many  hours 
after  it  was  written,  with  a  note,  informing  me 
of  her  place  of  abode,  and  requesting  a  meet- 


CLARA  HOWARD.  211 

ing  with  me.  A  letter  from  you,  by  her  hands, 
was  a  cause  of  sufficient  wonder ;  but  the  con- 
tents of  your  letter  were  far  more  wonderful 
than  the  mode  of  its  conveyance.  The  hand- 
writing assured  me  it  was  yours.  i  he  style 
and  sentiments  were  alien  to  all  that  my  fancy 
had  connected  with  your  name.  With  these 
tokens  of  profound  indifference  to  my  happi- 
ness, of  ineffable  contempt  for  my  person  and 
character,  I  compared  the  solicitude  and 
tenderness  which  your  preceding  letter  had 
breathed,  and  was  utterly  lost  in  horror  and 
doubt.  But  this  is  not  the  strain  in  which  I 
ought  to  write  to  you.  Reason  should  set 
my  happiness  beyond  the  love  or  enmity  of 
another  not  wiser  or  more  discerning  or  bene- 
volent than  myself.  If  reason  be  inadequate 
to  my  deliverance,  pride  should  hinder  me 
from  disclosing  my  humiliation  J  from  confess- 
ing my  voluntary  ser^-itude. 

After  my  discomposure  was  somewhat 
abated,  I  proceeded  to  reflect  on  what  was 
now  to  be  done.  Compliance  with  your  dic- 
tates was  obvious.  Since  I  was  no  longer  of 
importance  to  your  happiness,  it  was  time  to 


212  CLARA  HOWARD. 

remember  what  was  due  to  that  angelic  suf- 
ferer. 

I  have  already  told  you  that  I  sent  your 
letters,  and  promised  to  see  her  in  the  evening. 
I  went  at  the  appointed  hour.  I  entered  her 
apartment  with  a  throbbing  heart,  for  she  is 
my  friend.  Near  a  year  had  passed  since  I 
had  last  seen  her.  This  interval  had  been  tor- 
mented with  doubts  of  her  safety,  of  her  hap- 
piness, of  her  virtue,  and  even  her  existence. 
These  doubts  w^ere  removed,  or  about  to  be 
solved.  My  own  eyes  were  to  bear  testimony 
to  the  truth  of  her  existence. 

I  was  admitted  to  her.  I  hastened  to  com- 
municate my  w^ishes.  I  enforced  them  by  all 
the  eloquence  that  I  was  master  of,  but  my 
eloquence  was  powerless.  She  was  too  blind 
an  admirer,  and  assiduous  a  follower  of  Clara 
Howard,  to  accept  my  proffers.  I  abruptly 
vrithdrew. 

Heaven  protect  thee  and  herl  I  shall  carry, 
I  fear,  the  images  of  both  of  you  along  with 
me.  Their  company  will  not  be  friendly  to 
courage  or  constancy.  1  shall  shut  them  out 
as  soon  as  I  can. 

E.  H. 


CLARA  HOWARD. 


LETTER  XXVII. 


TO  MISS  HOWARD. 

Philadelphia,  May  13,  Xoox. 

I  FEEL  some  reluctance  and  embarrass- 
ment in  addressing  you  in  this  manner,  but  am 
enabled,  in  some  degree,  to  surmount  them,  by 
reflecting  on  the  proofs  which  are  now  in  my 
hands,  of  the  interest  which  you  take  in  my 
welfare,  and  of  the  inimitable  generosity  of 
your  sentiments.  I  am  likewise  stimulated  by 
the  regard,  which,  in  common  with  yourself, 
I  feel  for  an  excellent  youth,  to  whose  happi- 
ness this  letter  may  essentially  contribute. 

I  have  seen  you  but  for  a  moment.  I  was 
prepared  to  find  in  you  all  that  could  inspire 
veneration  and  love.    That  my  prepossessions 

were  fully  verified,  will,  perhaps,  redound  lit- 
s  2 


2U  CLARA  HOWARD. 

tie  to  the  credit  of  my  penetration  or  your 
beauty,  since  we  seldom  fail  to  discover  in  the 
features,  tokens  of  all  that  wc  imagine  to  ex- 
ist within. 

I  know  you  by  more  copious  and  satisfac- 
tory means  ;  by  several  letters  which  Edward 
Hartley  has  put  into  my  hands.  By  these  it 
likewise  appears,  that  you  have  some  acquaint- 
ance with  me,  collected  from  the  same  source, 
iind  from  the  representations  of  my  friend. 
The  character  and  situation,  the  early  history 
and  unfortunate  attachment  of  Mary,  and  that 
expedient  which  she  adopted  to  free  herself 
from  useless  importunities  and  repinings,  are 
already  known  to  you. 

This  makes  it  needless  for  me  to  mention 
many  particulars  of  my  early  life ;  they  autho- 
rise the  present  letter,  and  allow  me,  or,  per- 
haps, to  speak  more  truly,  they  enjoin  me 
to  confide  in  you  a  relation  of  some  incidents 
that  have  lately  occurred.  Your  sensibility 
would  render  them  of  some  moment  in  your 
eyes,  should  they  possess  no  relation  but  to  a 
forlorn  and  unhappy  girl  j  but  their  importance 
v.'ill  be  greater,  inasmuch  as  they  are  con- 
nected with  your  own  destiny,  and  with  that 


CLARA  HOWARD.  515 

of  one,  whom  you  justly  hold  dear.  I  shall 
claim  your  attention  for  as  short  a  time  as 
possible. 

A  letter,  written  last  autumn,  to  Edward 
Hartley,  informing  him  of  the  motives  that 
induced  me  to  withdraw  from  his  society,  has 
been  shewn  to  you.  It  will,  therefore,  be 
needless  to  explain  these  motives  anew.  I 
console  myself  with  believing,  that  they  me- 
rited and  obtained  the  approbation  of  so 
enlightened  and  delicate  a  judge  as  Clara 
Howard.  / 

The  place  of  my  retreat  was  determined 
by  the  kind  offers  and  solicitations  of  a  lady, 
by  name,  Valentine.  In  other  circumstances, 
similar  solicitations  from  her  had  been  refused, 
but  now  I  was  anxious  to  retire  to  a  great  and 
unknown  distance  from  my  usual  home;  to 
retire  without  delay,  but  my  health  was  im- 
perfect. I  was  a  female  without  knowledge 
of  the  world,  without  the  means  of  subsistence, 
and  the  season  was  cold  and  boisterous.  Mrs. 
Valentine  was  opulent ;  her  character  entitled 
her  to  confidence  and  love  ;  her  engagements 
required  her  immediate  departure  ;  she  would 
travel  with  all  possible  advantages  ;  her  new 


216  CLARA  HOWARD. 

abode  was  at  a  great  distance  from  my  own  ; 
and  she  meant  to  continue  absent  during  the 
ensuing  year.  There  was  but  one  considera- 
tion to  make  me  hesitate. 

Her  brother  had  long  offered  me  his  affec- 
tions. Mrs.  Valentine  had  been  his  advocate, 
and  endeavoured  to  win  my  favour,  or  at  least, 
to  facilitate  his  own  exertions,  by  promoting 
our  intercourse. 

I  had  been  hitherto  unjust  to  the  merits 
of  this  man.  His  constancy,  his  generosity, 
his  gifts  of  person,  understanding  and  fortune, 
might  have  won  the  heart  of  a  woman  less  pre- 
possessed in  favour  of  another.  My  indiffer- 
ence, my  aversion,  were  proportioned  to  that 
fervent  love  with  which  my  heart  was  inspired 
by  another.  I  thought  it  my  duty  to  avoid 
every  means  by  which  the  impracticable 
wishes  of  Sedley  might  be  fostered.  For  this 
end,  I  had  hitherto  declined  most  of  those 
offers  of  friendship  and  intercourse  with  which 
I  had  been  honoured  by  his  sister. 

My  unhappy  situation  had  now  reduced 
me  to  the  necessity  of  violating  some  of  my 
maxims.  I  should  never  have  accompanied 
Mrs.  Valentine,  however,  had  I  not  been  pre- 


CLARA  HOWARD.  217 

viously  assured  that  her  brother  designed  to 
live  at  a  distance.  It  was  impossible  to  object 
to  his  design  of  accompanying  us  to  the  end  of 
our  journey. 

That  journey  was  accomplished.  We  ar- 
rived, at  the  eve  of  winter,  in  the  neighbour- 
hood of  Boston.  The  treatment  I  received 
from  my  friend,  was  scrupulously  delicate. 
She  acted  with  the  frankness  and  affection  of  a 
sister ;  but  I  think  with  shame,  on  that  absurd 
pride  which  hindered  me  from  practising  the 
same  candour.  I  was  bom  in  an  affluent  con- 
dition, but  the  misfortune  of  my  parents, 
while  they  trained  me  up  in  a  thousand  preju- 
dices, left  me,  at  the  age  of  eighteen,  totally 
destitute  of  property  or  friends.  There  was 
no  human  being  on  whom  the  customs  of  the 
world  would  allow  me  to  depend.  My  only 
relation  was  a  younger  brother,  who  was  still 
a  boy,  and  who  needed  protection,  as  much  as 
myself.  In  this  state,  I  had  recourse  for  ho- 
nest bread,  to  my  needle  ;  but  the  bread  thus 
procured  was  mingled  with  many  bitter  tears, 
I  conceived  myself  degraded  by  my  labour ; 
my  penury  was  aggravated  by  remembrance  of 
my  former  enjoyments*     I  shrunk  from  the 


218  CLARA  HOWARD. 

salutation,  or  avoided  the  path,  of  my  early 
companions.  I  imagined  that  they  would 
regard  my  fallen  state  with  contempt,  or  with 
pity,  no  less  hard  to  be  endured  than  scorn.  I 
laboured  sometimes  by  unjustifiable  and  disin- 
genuous artifices,  to  conceal  my  employments 
and  my  wants,  and  masked  my  cares  as  well 
as  I  was  able,  under  cheerful  looks. 

This  spirit  led  me  to  conceal  from  Mrs. 
Valentine  my  forlorn  condition.  I  looked 
forward  without  hope,  to  the  hour  when  new 
labour  would  be  requisite  to  procure  for  me 
shelter  and  food.  For  there,  I  was  at  present 
indebted  to  my  friend  ;  but  I  loved  to  regard 
myself  merely  as  a  visitant,  and  anticipate  the 
time  when  I  should  cease  to  lie  under  obligation. 
Meanwhile,  there  were  many  little  and  occa- 
sional sources  of  expense,  to  which  my  ill-sup- 
plied purse  was  unequal;  while  a  thousand 
obstacles  existed  under  this  roof,  to  any  pro- 
fitable application  of  my  time.  Hence  arose 
new  cause  of  vexation,  and  new  force  to  my 
melancholy. 

All  my  stratagems  could  not  conceal  from 
my  friend  my  poverty.  For  a  time,  she  strug- 
gled to  accommodate  herself  to  my  scruples, 


CLARA  HOWARD.  219 

and  to  aid  me,  without  seeming  to  know  thc^ 
extent  of  my  necessities.  These  struggles 
were  frustrated  by  my  obstinate  pride.  I  stea- 
dily refused  either  money  or  credit. 

At  length,  she  resolved  to  enter  into  full 
explanations  with  me,  on  this  subject.  She 
laid  before  me,  with  simplicity  and  candour, 
all  her  suspicions  and  surmises,  and  finally  ex- 
torted from  me  a  confession  that  I  was  not 
mistress  of  a  single  dollar  in  the  world ;  that  I 
had  no  kinsman  to  whom  I  could  betake  my- 
self for  the  supply  of  my  wants ;  no  fund  on 
which  I  was  authorized  to  draw  for  a  far- 
thing. 

This  declaration  was  heard  with  the  strong- 
est emotion.  She  betrayed  surprise  and  dis- 
appointment. After  a  pause,  she  expressed 
her  astonishment  at  this  news.  She  reminded 
me  how  little  it  agreed  with  past  appearances. 
She  had  known  me,  during  the  latter  part  of 
my  brother's  life,  and  since.  My  brother's 
profession  had  apparently  been  useful  to  my 
subsistence,  and  since  his  death,  though  in- 
deed the  period  had  been  short,  I  had  lived 
in  a  neat  seclusion,  and  at  leisure. 


320  CLARA  HOWARD. 

These  hints  induced  me  to  be  more  frank 
in  my  disclosures.  I  related  what  is  already 
known  to  you,  the  fate  of  the  money  which  I 
inherited  from  my  brother,  the  doubtful  cir- 
cumstances that  attended  my  brother's  posses- 
sion, and  the  irresistible  claim  of  Morton. 

Every  word  of  my  narrative  added  anew 
to  my  friends  surprise  and  disappointment. 
She  continued  for  a  long  time  silent,  but  much 
disquiet  was  betrayed  by  her  looks.  I  mis- 
took these  for  signs  of  disapprobation  of  my 
conduct,  and  began  to  justify  myself.  Dear 
madam  I  Would  you  not,  in  my  place,  have 
acted  in  this  manner? 

Just  so,  Mary.  Your  conclusion  was  high- 
ly plausible. 

I  believe  my  conclusion,  replied  I,  to  be 
certain.  I  did  not  require  any  stronger  proof 
of  Morton's  title. 

And  yet  his  claim  was  fallacious.  This 
money  was  yours,  and  only  yours. 

This  assertion  was  made  with  a  confidence 
that  convinced  me  of  its  truth,  and  caused  my 
mind  instantly  to  adopt  a  new  method  of  ac- 
counting for  the  acquisition  of  this  money. 
My  eyes,  fixed  upon  my  companion,  betrayed 


\ 


CLARA  HOWARD.  221 

my  suspicion  that  my  benefactress  was  before 
me.  Humiliation  and  gratitude  were  mingled 
in  my  heart.  Tears  gushed  from  my  eyes, 
while  I  pressed  her  hand  to  my  lips. 

Ah !  said  I,  if  Morton  were  not  the 
giver,  who  should  know  the  defects  of  his 
title,  but  the  real  giver  ? 

Your  gratitude,  Mary,  is  misplaced.  You 
might  easily  imagine  that  my  funds  would 
never  allow  me  to  be  liberal  to  that  amount. 

Is  It  not  you?  Whose  then  was  the  boun- 
teous spirit?  You  are,  at  least,  acquainted  with 
the  real  benefactor. 

I  confess  that  I  am,  but  may  not  be  autho» 
rized  to  disclose  the  name. 

I  besought  her  to  disclose  her  name. 

The  motive,  said  my  friend,  is  obvious. 
It  could  only  be  the  dread  that,  knowing  your 
scrupulousness  on  this  head,  you  would  refuse 
the  boon,  and  thus  frustrate  a  purpose  truly 
benevolent.  This  apprehension  being  remov- 
ed, there  can  certainly  be  no  reason  for  con- 
cealment. I  am  entirely  of  your  opinion,  that 
.the  author  of  every  good  deed  should  be 
known  not  only  to  the  subject  of  the  benefit, 
but  to  all  mankind. 

T 


222  CLARA  HOWARD. 

After  much  solicitation  she,  at  length,  con- 
fessed that  this  money  was  the  gift  of  Mr.  Sed- 
ley  to  my  brother.  She  stated  the  motives  of 
this  uncommon  liberality.  Sedley  had  made 
his  sister  acquainted  with  his  passion  for  me, 
and  had  engaged  her  counsel  and  aid.  Her 
counsel  had  always  been,  to  abandon  a  pursuit 
whose  success  was  hopeless. ...Perceiving  your 
reluctance,  continued  my  friend,  and  finding 
it  to  arise  from  a  passion  for^another,  I  earn- 
estly dissuaded  him  from  persisting  in  claims 
which  were  hurtful  to  you  without  profiting 
himself.  His  passion  sometimes  led  him  to 
accuse  you  of  frowardness  and  obstinacy,  and, 
at  those  times,  I  hadr^much  ado  to  defend  you, 
and  to  prove  your  right  to  consult  your  own 
happiness. 

But  these  moments,  I  must  say  in  justice 
to  my  brother,  were  few.  I  could  generally 
reason  him  into  better  temper.  He  could  see, 
at  least  for  a  time,  the  propriety  of  ceasing  to 
vex  you  with  entreaties  and  arguments,  and 
was  generous  enough  to  wish  you  happiness, 
even  with  another.  This  spirit  led  him  to 
inquire  into  the  character  and  condition  of 
ycur  chosen  friend.     For  this  purpose  he  cul- 


CLARA  HOWARD.  223 

tivated  the  acquaintance  of  your  brother,  and 
discovered  that  the  only  obstacle  to  your  union 
with  young  Hartley,  was  your  mutual  pover- 
ty. After  many  struggles,  many  fits  of  jea- 
lousy, and  anger,  and  melancholy,  he  deter- 
mined to  lay  aside  every  selfish  wish,^and  to 
remove  this  obstacle  to  your  happiness,  by 
giving  you  possession  of  sufficient  property. 

This  undertaking  was  in  the  highest  de- 
gree arduous  and  delicate.  To  make  the 
offer  directly  to  you,  was  chimerical.  No 
power  on  earth,  he  well  knew,  could  persuade 
you  to  receive  a  free  gift  in  money  from  one 
whose  pretensions  had  been  such  as  his.  To 
bestow  it  upon  Hartley,  would  be  exposing  the 
success  of  his  scheme  to  hazard.  His  scruples 
would  be  as  likely  to  exclaim  against  such  a 
gift,  as  loudly  as  yours,  especially  when  attend- 
ed with  those  conditions  which  it  would  be 
necessarj'  to  prescribe.  There  was  likewise  no 
certainty  that  his  gift  might  not  be  diverted  by 
Hartley  to  other  purposes  than  those  which  he 
sought.  Neither  did  he  wish  to  ensure  your 
marriage  with  another,  upon  terms  w^hich 
should  appear  to  lay  you  under  obligations  to 
that  other.   Besides,  your  union  with  Hartlev, 


2!>4  CLARA  HOWARD. 

was,  in  some  degree,  uncertain.  A  thousand 
untoward  events  might  occur  to  protract  or 
prevent  it,  whereas  your  poverty  was  a  present 
and  constant  evil. 

After  discussing  a  great  number  of  expe- 
dients^ he  adopted  one,  at  length,  which,  per- 
haps, was  as  unskilful  as  any  which  he  could 
have  lighted  on.  By  talking  with  your  brother, 
he  found  him  possessed  of  a  quick,  indignant, 
and  lofty  spirit ;  one  that  recoiled  from  pecu- 
niary obligations;  that  placed  a  kind  of  glory 
in  being  poor,  and  in  devoting  his  effo.rts  to 
benevolent,  rather  than  to  lucrative  purposes. 
He  saw  that  direct  offers  of  money,  to  any  con- 
siderable amount,  and  accompanied  with  no 
conditions,  or  by  conditions  which  respected 
his  sister,  would  be  disdainfully  rejected.  He 
determined,  therefore,  to  leave  him  no  option, 
and  to  put  a  certain  sum  in  his  possession 
without  it  being  possible  for  him  to  discover 
tho  donor,  or  to  refuse  the  gift.  This  sum 
was,  therefore,  sent  to  him,  under  cover  of  a 
short  billet,  without  signature,  and  in  a  dis- 
guised hand. 

This  scheme  was  not  disclosed  to  me  till 
after  it  was  executed.    I  did  not  approve  it.    I 


CLARA  HOWARD.  225 

am  no  friend  to  indirect  proceedings.  I  was 
aware  of  many  accidents  that  might  make  this 
gift  aa  hurtful  one,  or,  at  least,  useless  to  the 
end  Sedley  proposed.  Your  brother's  scruples, 
which  hindered  him  from  openly  accepting 
it,  were  likely  to  prevent  him  from  applying 
so  large  a  sum  to  his  own,  or  to  3'our  benefit. 
He  would  either  let  it  lie  idly  in  his  coffers, 
under  the  belief  that  so  ambiguous  a  transfer 
gave  him  no  right  to  it,  or  he  would,  more 
probably,  spend  it  on  some  charitable  scheme. 
I  was  acquainted  with  his  enthusiasm,  in  the 
cause  of  what  he  called  the  good  of  mankind, 
and  that  his  notions  of  the  goods  and  evils  of 
life  differed  much  from  those  of  his  sister. 

This  act,  however,  was  not  to  be  recalled, 
and  it  was  useless  to  make  my  brother  repent 
of  his  precipitation.  I  hoped  that  his  inten- 
tion would  not  be  defeated,  and  watched  the 
conduct  of  your  brother  very  carefully,  to  dis- 
cover the  effect  of  his  new  acquisitions.  The 
effect  was  such  as  I  expected.  Your  brother's 
mode  of  life  underwent  no  change  ;  and  the 
money,  as  there  were  easy  means  of  discover- 
ing, lay  in  one  of  the  banks,  untouched. 
T  2 


226  CLARA  HOWARD. 

My  curiosity  was  awakened  anew  at  your 
brother's  death,  and  Sedley  had  the  satisfac- 
tion of  perceiving  that  your  condition  was 
visibly  improved.  You  no  longer  hired  out 
your  labour.  You  lived  in  retirement,  indeed, 
but  with  some  degree  of  neatness  ;  and  your 
time  was  spent  in  impi-oving  and  adorning 
your  mind,  and  in  those  offices  of  kindness 
and  charity,  which,  however  arduous  in  them- 
selves, are  made  light  by  the  consciousness  of 
dignity  attending  them. 

I  admire  and  love  you,  and  that  day  which 
would  make  you  my  sister,  I  should  count 
the  happiest  of  my  life.  You  have  treated  me 
with  much  distance  and  reserve,  but  I  flattered 
myself  that  my  overtures  to  intimacy,  had 
been  rejected  not  on  my  own  account,  but  on 
that  of  my  brother.  Since  you  have  been  my 
companion,  I  have  noticed  the  proofs  of  your 
poverty,  with  great  uneasiness.  I  know,  that 
your  money,  all  but  a  few  hundred  dollars, 
still  lies  in  one  of  the  banks.  Will  you 
pardon  me  for  having  been  attentive  to  your 
conduct?  For  my  brother's  sake,  and  for  your 
own,  I  have  v/atched  all  your  movements, 
and  could  tell  you  the  times  and  portions  in 


CLARA  HOWARD.  22r 

which  these  hundreds  have  been  dra'svn  out ; 
and  have  formed  very  plausible  guesses  as  to 
the  mode  in  which  you  have  disposed  of 
them. 

How  to  reconcile  your  seeming  poverty 
with  the  possession  of  some  thousands,  how 
to  account  for  your  acquiescence  in  my  wishes 
to  attend  me  hither,  and  for  forbearing  to  use 
any  more  of  this  money  for  the  supply  of  your 
own  wants,  has  puzzled  me  a  great  deal.  I 
perceive  that  you  have  dropped  all  intercouse 
with  your  former  friend,  and  given  up  yourself 
a  prey  to  melancholy.  These  things  have  ex- 
cited, you  will  imagine,  a  great  deal  of  reflec- 
tion, but  I  have  patiently  waited  till  you  your- 
self have  thought  proper  to  put  aside  the 
curtain  that  is  drawn  between  us.  This  you 
have  at  length  done,  and  I  in  my  turn  have 
disclosed  what  I  am  afraid  my  brother  will 
never  forgive  me  for  doing. 

I  could  not  but  be  deeply  affected  by  this 
representation.  The  generosity  of  Sedley  and 
his  sister,  their  perseverance  in  labouring  for 
my  good,  when  no  personal  advantage,  not 
even  the  homage  of  a  grateful  spirit,  could 
flow  to  themselves,  made  me  feel  the  stings  of 


1^28  CLARA  HOWARD. 

somewhat  like  ingratitude.  The  merits  and 
claims  of  Sedley  came  now  to  assume  a  new 
aspect.  I  had  hitherto  suffered  different  ob- 
jects to  engross  my  attention.  I  did  not  ap- 
plaud or  condemn  myself  for  my  conduct 
towards  him,  merely  because  I  did  not  think 
of  him.  I  was  occupied  by  gloomy  reveries, 
in  which  no  images  appeared  but  those  of 
Hartley  and  my  brother. 

Now  the  subjects  of  my  thoughts  were 
changed.  Time  had  insensibly,  and,  in  some 
degree,  worn  out  those  deep  traces,  which  I 
brought  aw'ay  with  me  from  Abingdon.  Pity 
and  complacency,  and  reverence  for  Sedley; 
gratitude  to  his  sister,  from  whom  I  had  re- 
ceived so  many  favours,  and  who  would  deem 
herself  amply  repaid  by  my  consent  to  make 
her  brother  happy,  hourly  gained  ground  in 
my  heart. 

These  tendencies  did  not  escape  my  friend, 
who  endeavoured  to  strengthen  and  promote 
them.  She  insisted  on  the  merits  of  her  bro- 
tlier,  arising  from  the  integrity  of  his  life,  the 
elevation  of  his  sentiments,  and  especially  the 
constancy  of  his  alfection  to  nie.  She  praised 
my  self-denial  with  regard  to  Hartley,  and 


CLARA  HOWARD.  229 

hinted,  that  my  duty  to  him  was  but  half  per- 
formed. It  became  me  to  shew  that  my  hap- 
piness w^as  consistent  with  self-denial.  Mar- 
riage with  miss  Howard  will  give  him  but 
little  pleasure,  she  said,  while  he  is  a  stranger 
to  your  fate,  or  while  he  knows  that  you  are 
unhappy.  For  his  sake,  it  becomes  you,  to 
shake  off  all  useless  repinings.  To  waste  your 
days  in  this  dejection,  in  longings  after  what 
is  unattainable,  and  what  you  have  voluntarily 
given  up,  is  contemptible,  and,  indeed,  crimi- 
nal. You  have  profited  but  little  by  the  lessons 
of  that  religion  you  profess,  if  you  see  not  the 
impiety  of  despair,  and  the  necessity  of  chang- 
ing your  conduct. 

You  have,  indeed,  fallen  into  a  very  gross 
error  with  regard  to  your  friend.  In  some 
respects,  you  have  treated  him  in  an  inhuman 
manner. 

Good  heaven,  Mrs.  Valentine,  in  what 
respect  have  I  been  inhuman  ? 

Have  you  not  detailed  to  me  the  contents 
of  the  letter  which  you  left  behind  you  at 
Abingdon  ?  In  that  letter  have  you  not  assured 
him  that  your  heart  was  broken  ;  that  you  ex- 
pected and  wished  for  death.... wishes  that 


230  CLARA  HOWARD. 

sprang  from  the  necessity  there  was  of  re- 
nouncing his  love  !  Have  you  not  given  him 
reason  to  suppose  that  you  are  enduring  all 
the  evils  of  penury  and  neglect;  that  you  are 
languishing  in  some  obscure  corner,  unknown, 
neglected,  forgotten,  and  despised  by  all  man- 
kind ?  Have  you  not  done  this  ? 

Alas  !  it  is  too  true. 

Not  to  mention  that  this  picture  was  by  no 
means  justified  by  the  circumstances  in  which 
you  left  Abingdon,  and  in  which  you  could 
not  but  expect  to  pass  the  winter,  amidst  all 
the  comforts  which  my  character,  my  station 
in  society,  my  friends,  my  fortune,  and  my 
friendship  must  bestow.. ..not  to  mention  these 
things,  which  rendered  your  statement  to  him 
untrue,  what  must  have  been  the  influence  of 
this  picture  upon  the  feelings  of  that  generous 
youth  ?     Can  you  not  imagine  his  affliction  ? 

O  yes,  indeed,  I  can.  I  was  wrong :  I  now 
see  my  error.  I  believed  that  I  should  not 
have  survived  to  this  hour.  I  wanted  to  cut 
off  every  hope,  every  possibility  of  his  union 
with  me. 

And  do  you  think  that,  by  that  letter,  this 
end  was  answered  ?  Do  not  you  perceive  that 


CLARA  HOWARD.  231 

Hartley's  sympathy  for  you  must  have  been 
infinitely  increased  by  that  distressful  picture  ? 
that  his  resolution  to  find  you  out  in  your  re* 
treat  and  compel  you  to  be  happy,  would  receive 
tenfold  energy?  You  imagine  yourself  to  have 
resigned  him  to  miss  Howard,  but  your  letter 
and  your  flight  could  only  bind  him  by  stronger 
ties  to  yourself.  Should  this  lady  be  inclined 
to  favour  Hartley,  of  what  materials  must  her 
heart  be  composed,  if  she  do  not  refuse,  or  at 
least,  hesitate  to  interfere  with  your  claims  ? 
If  she  do  not  refuse,  how  must  her  happiness 
be  embittered  by  reflections  on  your  forlorn 
state  ?  for  no  doubt  the  young  man's  sincerity 
will  make  her  mistress  of  your  story. 

Do  not  dwell  upon  this  theme,  said  I.  I 
am  grieved  for  my  folly.  I  have  been  very 
wrong.  Tell  me  rather,  my  beloved  monitor, 
what  I  ought  to  have  done :  what  I  may  still  do. 

It  would  be  useless  to  dwell  on  what  is 
past,  and  cannot  be  undone.  The  future  is 
fully  in  your  power.  Without  doubt  you  ought 
to  hasten  to  repair  the  errors  you  have  com- 
mitted. 

By  what  means  ? 


252  CLARA  HOWARD 

They  are  obvious.  You  must  dismiss  these 
useless,  these  pernicious  regrets,  which,  in 
every  view,  religious  or  moral,  are  criminal. 
You  must  give  admission  to  cheerful  thoughts ; 
fix  your  attention  on  the  objects  of  useful 
knowledge;  study  the  happiness  of  those  around 
you ;  be  affable  and  social,  and  entitle  yourself 
to  the  friendship  and  respect  of  the  many 
amiable  persons  who  live  near  us.  Above  all, 
make  haste  to  inform  Hartley  of  your  present 
condition ;  disclose  to  him  your  new  prospects 
of  being  useful  and  happy ;  and  teach  him  to 
be  wise  by  your  example. 

But  let  your  kindness  be  most  shewn, 
where  your  power  is  greatest,  and  where  you 
are  most  strongly  bound  by  the  ties  of  grati- 
tude. Think  of  my  brother,  as  he  merits  to 
be  thought  of.  Hasten  to  reward  him,  for 
those  years  of  anguish  which  your  perverse- 
ness  has  given  him,  and  which  have  consumed 
the  best  part  of  his  life. 

But  how  shall  I  gain  an  interview  with 
Hartley  ?  I  know  not  where  he  is.  You  say 
that  my  draught  has  never  been  presented.  It 
must  be  so  j  since  the  money  is  still  there,  in 


CLARA  HOWARD.  233 

my  own  name.  Some  accident,  perhaps,  has 
befallen  him.  He  may  not  be  alive  to  receive 
the  fruits  of  my  repentance. 

Set  your  heart  at  rest,  replied  my  friend, 
with  a  significant  smile  ;  he  is  well. 

Indeed  ?  You  speak  as  if  you  had  the  means 
of  knowing.  Surely,  madam,  you  know  nothing 
ofhim. 

I  know  enough  ofhim.  He  is  now  in  New- 
York,  in  the  same  house  with  miss  Howard. 

In  the  same  house  ?  And.. ..perhaps.. ..mar- 
ried ? 

Fie  upon  you,  Mary.  Is  this  the  courage 
you  have  just  avowed  ?  To  turn  pale  ;  to  faul- 
ter,  at  the  mere  possibility  of  what  you  have 
so  earnestly  endeavoured  to  accomplish. 

Forgive  me.  It  was  a  momentary  folly. 
He  is  then. ,., married. 

No.  They  live  under  the  same  roof;  but 
it  is  nothing  but  a  vague  surmise  that  they  will 
ever  be  married. 

Dear  lady  I  By  what  means.... 

Through  my  brother's  letters  ;  which,  if 
you  please  to  read  them,  will  give  you  all  the 
information  that  I  possess.  Why  that  sudden 
gravity  ?  They  will  not  taint  your  fingers,  or 


234  CLARA  HOWARD. 

blast  your  sight.  They  are  worthy  of  my  bro- 
ther, and  will  depict,  truly,  that  character 
which  you  could  not  fail  to  love,  if  you  were 
but  thoroughly  acquainted  with  it. 

I'his  rebuke  suppressed  the  obj  ection  which 
I  was  going  to  raise  against  perusing  these 
letters.  They  were  put  into  my  hands.  They 
contained  no  information  respecting  Hartley, 
but  that  he  resided  at  New-York. 

They  contained  chiefly,  incidents  and  re- 
flections relative  to  Sedley  and  to  me.  In  this 
respect  they  were  copious.  I  read  them  often, 
and  found  myself  daily  confirmed  in  the  reso- 
lutions which  I  began  to  form.  I  need  not 
dwell  upon  the  struggles  which  I  occasionally 
experienced,  and  those  fits  of  profound  me- 
lancholy into  which  I  was  still,  sometimes, 
plunged.  I  shall  only  say,  that  listening  only 
to  the  dictates  of  justice  and  gratitude,  and  to 
the  pathetic  remonstrances  of  my  friend,  I 
finally  prevailed  upon  myself  to  consent  to 
her  brother's  wishes. 

I  should  have  written  to  Hartley-,  inform- 
ing him  of  my  destiny,  but  I  proposed  to  re- 
turn to  Philadelphia,  with  Mrs  Valentine,  and 
hoped  to  meet  him  there,  or  at  New- York. 


CLARA  HOWARD.  255 

I  was  not  unaware  of  the  effects  of  an  inter- 
view with  him.  My  soul  was  tremulous  with 
doubt,  and  torn  by  conflicting  emotions.  I  was 
ready,  in  dreary  moments,  to  revoke  my  pro- 
mise to  Sedley,  to  trust  once  more  to  sornc 
kind  chance  that  might  make  Hartley  mine,  or 
to  consecrate  my  life  to  mournful  recollections 
of  my  lost  happiness.  These  vrere  transient 
moments,  and  the  bitter  tears  which  attended 
them  were  soon  dried  up.  I  found  compla- 
cency in  the  resolution  to  devote  mv  life  to 
Sedley's  happiness,  and  to  the  society  of  his 
beloved  sister. 

Having  arrived  at  New- York,  I  w*as  told 
of  Hartley's  absence,  and  learned  that  he  was 
then  somewhere  southward.  I  was  informed 
by  Mrs.  Etheridge,  with  w^hom  Sedley  made 
me  acquainted,  of  your  general  character.  I 
wanted  to  see  you;  to  know  you;  to  repose 
my  thoughts  in  your  bosom  ;  to  be  Hartley's 
advocate  with  you ;  but  I  could  not  procure 
sufficient  courage  to  request  an  introduction 
to  you.  A  thousand  scruples  deterred  me.  I 
thought,  that  to  justify  confidence  and  candour 
on  such  delicate  topics,  much  time  and  many 


336  CLARA  HOWARD. 

interviews  would  be  necessary ;  but  I  could 
not  remain  in  New- York  beyond  a  day. 

I  went  to  Mrs.  Etheridge  strangely  per- 
plexed. Perhaps,  I  should  have  ventured  to 
beseech  that  lady's  company  to  your  house  ; 
but  the  meeting  that  took  place,  on  that  occa- 
sion, confused  me  beyond  the  possibility  of 
regaining  composure.  The  superscription  of 
your  letter  added  to  my  surprise,  and  made 
me  more  willing  to  decline  a  meeting,  since 
this  letter  would  guide  me  to  the  very  spot 
where  Hartley  was  to  be  found. 

I  once  more  entered  my  native  city.  Sed- 
ley  was  prepared  to  meet  and  welcome  me. 
He  was  apprised  of  my  intention  as  to  Hartley, 
and  did  not  disapprove.  He  even  wrote  the 
billet  by  which  I  invited  your  friend  to  come 
to  my  lodgings. 

My  purpose  was,  to  unfold  the  particulars 
contained  in  this  letter  to  Hartley,  and  to  in- 
troduce my  two  friends  to  each  other.  In  an- 
swer to  my  billet,  I  received  a  voluminous 
pacquet,  containing  certain  letters  and  narra- 
tives relative  to  him  and  to  you. 

How  shall  I  describe  my  feelings  on  perus- 
ing them  ?  They  supply  the  place  of  a  thou- 


CLARA  HOWARD.  237 

sand  conversations.  They  leave  nothing  to 
be  said.  They  take  away  every  remnant  of 
hesitation.  They  inspire  me  with  new  virtue 
and  new  joy.  I  am  not  grieved  that  Hartley 
and  his  Clara  are  subjected  to  trials  of  their 
magnanimity,  since  I  foresee  the  propitious 
issue  of  the  trial.  I  am  not  grieved  that  the 
happiness  of  Mary  has  been  an  object  of  such 
value  in  your  eyes,  as  to  merit  the  sacrifice  of 
your  own.  I  exult  that  my  feelings  are  akin 
to  yours,  and  that  it  is  in  my  power  to  vie  with 
you  in  generosity. 

But  Hartley's  last  letter  gives  me  pain ; 
the  more,  because,  in  the  tenor  of  yours,  which 
preceded  it,  there  is  an  apparent  harshness  not, 
perhaps,  to  be  mistaken  by  an  unimpassioned 
reader,  but  liable  to  produce  fallacious  terrors 
in  an  heart  deeply  enamoured.  I  see  the  ex- 
tent of  this  error  in  him,  but  am  consoled  by 
hoping  that  my  reasoning,  when  we  meet,  or, 
at  least,  that  time,  will  dispel  this  unfriendly 
cloud.     I  am  impatient  for  his  coming. 

M.  W. 
V2 


CLARA  HOWARD. 


LETTER  XXVII. 


TO  MISS  HOWARD. 


Phii^adelphia,  May  13. 

JVIy  friend,  we  have  met,  but  such  a 
meeting!.... 

The  letters  had  told  me  of  his  sickness, 
but  I  expected  not  to  behold  a  figure  so  wan, 
so  feeble,  so  decayed.  I  expected  much 
anxiety,  much  conflict  in  his  features,  be- 
tween apprehension  and  hope ;  but  not  an 
aspect  so  wild,  so  rueful,  so  melancholy.  His 
deportment  and  his  words  were  equally  ad- 
verse to  my  expectations. 

After  our  first  tears  of  congratulation  were 
exhausted,  he  exclaimed  in  a  tone  of  unusual 
vehemence  : 

Why,  my  friend,  have  you  thus  long  aban- 


24d  CLARA  HOWARD. 

doned  mc  ?  You  have  been  unjust  to  jourself 
and  to  me,  and  I  know  not  how  to  pardon  you, 
except  on  one  condition. 

What  is  that  ? 

That  we  now  meet  to  be  united  by  the 
strongest  ties,  and  never  to  part  more.  On 
that  condition  I  forgive  you. 

I  was  prepared  for  this  question ;  but  the 
tones  and  looks  with  which  it  was  accompa- 
nied, and  especially  its  abruptness,  discon- 
certed me,     I  was  silent. 

I  came  to  this  interview,  resumed  he,  with 
one  determination.  I  will  not  tremble,  or 
repine,  or  upbraid,  because  my  confidence  in 
the  success  of  my  efforts,  is  perfect,  and  not  to 
be  shaken.  I  came  to  offer  you  the  vows  of 
an  husband.  They  are  now  offered,  and  re- 
ceived. "You  have  no  power  to  decline  them. 
Let  me  then  salute  you  as.. ..my  wife. 

I  shrunk  back,  and  spread  out  my  hand  to 
repulse  him.     I  was  still  unable  to  speak. 

I  told  you  the  purpose  of  my  coming,  said 
he,  in  a  solemn  tone.  This  purpose  is  the 
dearest  to  my  heart.  Of  every  other  good  I 
am  bereaved,  but  to  the  attainment  of  this 
there  can  be  no  obstacle,  but  caprice,  or  inhu- 


CLARA  HOWARD.  241 

manity,  or  folly,  such  as  I  never  can  impute 
to  you.  If  you  love  me,  if  you  have  regard 
to  my  welfare,  if  you  wish  me  to  love,  grant 
me  that  good  which  is  all  that  remains  to 
endear  existence.  If  you  refuse  this  gift,  I 
shall  instantly  vanish  from  society.  I  shall 
undertake  a  journey,  in  which  my  life  will  be 
exposed  to  numberless  perils.  If  I  pass  them 
in  safety,  I  shall  be  dead  to  all  the  offices  and 
pleasures  of  civilized  existence.  I  shall  hasten 
to  embrute  all  my  faculties.  I  shall  make  my- 
self akin  to  savages  and  tygers,  and  forget 
that  I  once  was  a  man. 

This  is  no  incoherent  intimation.  It  is 
the  fixed  purpose  of  my  soul,  to  be  changed 
only  by  your  consenting  to  be  mine.  Ponder 
well  on  the  consequences  of  a  refusal.  It  de- 
cides my  everlasting  destiny. 

Have  you  not  read  my  letter?  Have  I  not 
read  yours  and  Clara's  ?  How  then  can  you 
expect  my  concurrence  ?  Have  you  not  anti- 
cipated my  refusal? 

I  anticipated  misery.  Having  found  in- 
justice and  a  callous  heart  in  another,  where 
I  least  expected  to  find  them,  I  was  prone,  in 
the  bitterness  of  disappointment,  to  ascribe 


242  CLARA  HOWARD. 

them  to  every  human  creature;  but  that  was 
rash  and  absurd.     Mary  cannot  be  unjust. 

To  whom  do  you  impute  an  hard  heart? 

Not  to  you.  You  merit  not  the  imputa- 
tion. You  will  prove  yourself  compassionate 
and  good.  You  will  not  scorn  me;  cast  me 
off;  drive  me  into  hopeless  exile,  and  inextri- 
cable perils.  You  are  too  good,  and  have  been 
too  long  my  fritnd ;  the  partaker  of  ray  cares ; 
the  solace  of  my  being;  the  rewarder  of  my 
tenderness.  You  will  not  reject  me,  banish 
fne,  kill  me. 

You  knownot  what  you  say.  Your  thoughts 
are  confused.  You  love  and  are  beloved  by 
another ;  by  one  who  merits  your  eternal  de- 
votion and  gratitude.  They  are  due  to  her, 
and  never  will  I  rob  her  of  them. 

What  mean  you.  Did  not  you  say  you 
had  read  the  pacquets?  and  do  not  these  in- 
form you  that  I  have  no  place  in  the  affections 
of  any  human  being  but  yourself?  Convince 
me  that  I  have,  indeed,  a  place  in  yours ;  that 
I  am  not  utterly  deserted.  Consent  to  be 
mine  own,  my  beloved  wife,  and  thus  make 
me  as  happy  as  my  fate  will  permit. 


CI.ARA  HOWARD.  241 

Alas,  my  friend !  you  are  not  in  your  right 
mind.  Disappointment  has  injured  your  rea- 
son, or  you  could  never  solicit  me  thus  ;  you 
could  never  charge  Clara  Howard  with  a  hard 
heart. 

Talk  not  of  Clara  Howard.  Talk  only  of 
yourself  and  of  me.  Rid  me  of  suspense  and 
anxiety,  by  consenting  to  my  wishes.  Make 
me  happy.  Take  away,  at  least,  the  largest 
portion  of  my  misery,  by  your  consent.  Will 
you  not  be  mine  ? 

Never.  Former  objections  time  has  ren- 
dered more  strong;  but  your  letters  would 
have  fixed  my  resolutions,  had  they  wavered. 
These  shew  how  far  the  happiness  of  miss 
Howard  and  your  own  depend  upon  my  perse- 
verence  ;  and  persevere  I  must. 

What  mean  you  ?  Miss  Howard's  happi- 
ness, say  you,  depends  upon  your  incompliance 
with  her  wishes  ?  on  your  rejecting  the  prayers 
she  has  made,  with  the  utmost  degree  of  ear- 
nestness ? 

They  are  generous  prayers,  which  suppose 
me  weaker  and  more  infatuated  than  I  am. 
They  are  prayers  which  counteract  their  own 
purpose,  since  they  exhibit  an  example   of 


344  CLARA  HOWARD. 

disinterestedness  and  self-oblivion,  which  L 
cannot  fail  to  admire  and  to  imitate.  Our 
cases  are,  indeed,  not  parallel.  Her  love  for 
you  is  answered  and  returned  by  equal  love. 
To  me  your  heart  is  indifferent,  and  I  have 
resolved  to  conquer  my  perverse  affections,  or 
perish. 

You  have  read  her  letters,  her  last  letter, 
and  yet  you  talk  of  her  love  !  Once,  I  grant, 
it  might  have  been,  it  was  so,  but  that  time 
of  affability,  of  softness,  of  yielding,  is  gone. 
She  is  now  rugged,  austere,  unfeeling.  Her 
preposterous  abstractions  and  refinements  have 
gained  force  through  the  coldness  of  her  heart. 
There  is  no  self-sacrifice,  for  she  loves  me  not. 
There  is  no  regard  for  my  welfare  or  felicity, 
for  she  loves  me  not. 

O,  Edward  !  can  you  be  so  perverse;  so 
unjust?  You  merit  not  the  love  of  so  pure  a 
spirit.  You  merit  not  the  happiness  which 
such  an  one  i«  qualified  to  give  you.  But 
your  disappointment  has  disturbed  your  rea- 
son. I  can  pity  and  forgive  you,  and  will 
intercede  with  her  for  your  forgiveness.  I  see 
her  merits  and.her  superior  claims  too  clearly, 
ever  to  consent  to  your  separation. 


CLARA  HOWARD.  245 

You  are  discomposed,  I  continued.  Surely 
you  have  been  very  sick.  You  seem  to  have 
just  risen  from  the  grave  ;  you  are  so  pale  ; 
so  wan;  so  feeble.  Your  state  of  health  has 
made  you  unfit  to  judge  truly  of  the  motives 
of  your  friend,  and  to  adopt  her  magnanimity. 

Ifyou  will  have  patience  I  can  convince  you 
that  it  is  my  duty  to  reject  your  offers,  and 
that  Clara  Howard  may  still,  ifyou  please,  be 
yours. 

Then,  replied  he,  you  do  reject  them? 

Do  not  look  so  wildly.  I  am  sure,  you  are 
not  well.  You  seem  ready  to  sink  upon  the 
floor.  You  are  cold,  very  cold.  Let  us  defer 
this  conversation  a  little  while.  I  have  much 
to  say  on  the  subject  of  my  history,  since  we 
parted.  That  being  known  to  you,  you  will  sec 
reason  to  judge  differently  of  my  motives  in  re- 
jecting your  offers.  Instead  of  making  that 
rejection  more  difficult  by  importunity  and 
vehemence,  you  will  see  the  justice  of  con- 
curring with  me,  and  of  strengdiening  my  re- 
solution. 

Impossible,  said  he,  that  any  thing  has 
happened  to  change  my  views.  Are  not  your 

X 


246  CLARA  HOWARD. 

affections,  merits,  and  integrity,  the  same  as 
formerly  ?  Answer  me  sincerely. 

I  will.  I  have  no  reason  for  concealment. 
Time  has  not  lessened  my  merits,  it  is  true, 
but.... 

That  assurance  is  enough  for  me.  I  will 
eagerly  listen  to  your  story,  but  not  until  my 
fate  is  decided.  Have  pity  on  that  sinking 
frame,  and  that  wounded  heart  which  you  be- 
hold. There  is  but  one  cure,  and  that  is  de- 
posited in  your  hands.  To  every  other  my 
joy  or  sorrow;  my  life  or  death,  is  indifferent. 
Will  you  take  me  to  your  bosom ;  shall  my 
image  be  fostered,  and  my  soul  find  peace  there ; 
or  shall  I  cast  myself  upon  a  sea  of  storms 
and  perils,  and  vanish  from  this  scene  forever? 

How  you  grieve  me  1  I  beseech  you  be  not 
so  impetuous.  Listen  to  my  story  first,  and 
then  say  in  what  manner  I  ought  to  act. 

There  is  no  room  for  delay.  Say  you  will 
be  mine,  and  then  I  shall  enjoy  repose.  I  shall 
be  able  to  listen.  Till  then  I  am  stretched 
upon  the  rack.  Answer  me ;  will  you  be  mine  ? 

O  no  !  I  replied ;  while  I  have  an  heart  not 
wholly  sordid  and  selfish,  I  cannot  consent. 
My  conscience  will  not  let  me. 


CLARA  HOWARD.  247 

Find  consolation,  he  answered,  in  the  ap- 
probations of  that  conscience,  for  a  sentence 
that  has  ratified  the  doom  of  one  who  deserved 
differently  from  you.  I  perceive  you  are  in- 
flexible, and  will  therefore  leave  you. 

But  whither  are  you  going  ?  Will  you  not 
return  to  Clara  ? 

To  Clara  I  No.  Far  different  is  the  path 
that  I  am  to  tread.  I  shall  never  see  her 
more. 

He  now  moved  towards  the  door,  as  if  go- 
ing. 

Ed  ward  1  what  can  you  mean?  Stay.  Do  not 
go  till  you  have  heard  me  further.  I  entreat 
you,  as  you  value  my  peace,  and  my  life,  hear 
me  further. 

Will  you  then  consent  ?  said  he,  returning 
with  a  more  cheerful  brow.  How  good  you 
are !  The  same  dear  girl ;  the  same  angelic 
benignity  as  formerly.  Confirm  my  happiness 
by  new  assurances.  Confirm  it  by  permitting 
this  embrace. 

I  was  compelled  to  avert  my  face  ;  to  re- 
pulse him  from  my  arms.  To  what  unlooked 
for  trials  have  you  subjected  me  I  But  I  must 
not  retract  my  resolutions.    No,  Edward,  the 


248  CLARA  HOWARD. 

bar  between  us  is  insuperable.  I  must  never 
be  yours. 

Never!. ...never!.. ..be  mine!. ...Well,  may 
the  arms  of  a  protecting  Providence  encircle 
thee  !  May  some  other  rise  to  claim  and  pos- 
sess thy  love !  May  ye  never,  neither  thou  nor 
Clara;  know  remorse  for  your  treatment  to 
me  !.... Saying  this,  he  snatched  his  hat  from 
the  table,  and  ran  out  of  the  house.  I  called, 
but  he  was  gone  beyond  my  hearing. 

I  was  justly  alarmed  by  this  frantic  de- 
meanour. I  knew  not  how  to  account  for  it, 
but  by  imagining  that  some  remains  of  deli- 
rium still  afflicted  his  understanding.  I  related 
this  conversation  to  Sedley.  I  entreated  him 
to  pursue  Edward  to  his  lodgings,  to  prevail 
upon  him  to  return  hither,  or  to  calm  his  mind, 
by  relating  what  his  abrupt  departure  had  pre- 
vented me  from  saying. 

Sedley  cheerfully  complied  with  my  re- 
quest, but  Hartley  was  not  to  be  found  at  his 
lodging.  He  waited  his  return  till  ten,  eleven, 
and  twelve  o'clock,  but  in  vain. 

Meanwhile,  I  found  some  relief  in  imagin- 
ing they  had  met ;  that  Sedley's  address  and 
benevolence  had  succeeded  in  restoring  our 


CLARA  HOWARD.  249 

friend  to  better  thoughts.  My  disappointment 
and  alarm,  at  his  return,  on  hearing  that  Hart- 
ley had  not  been  met  with,  were  inexpressible. 
That  night  passed  away  without  repose.  Early 
in  the  morning,  I  again  entreated  Sedley  to  go 
in  search  of  the  fugitive.  He  went,  but  pre- 
sently returned  to  inform  me  that  Hartley  had 
set  out,  in  the  stage  for  Baltimore,  at  day- 
dawn. 

I  cannot  comprehe,nd  his  intimations  of  a 
journey  to  the  wilderness  ;  of  embruting  his 
faculties ;  of  exposing  his  humanity,  his  life,  to 
hazard.  Could  he  have  interpreted  your  let- 
ters into  avowals  of  hatred  or  scorn,  or  even 
of  indifference  ?  One,  indeed,  who  knew  you 
less  perfectly,  might  impute  to  you  a  rigour  in 
judging;  a  sternness  not  suitable  to  the  merits 
of  this  youth.  Your  letters  are  void  of  that 
extenuating  spirit,  that  reluctance  to  inflict 
sufferings,  which,  perhaps,  the  wisest  inflexi- 
bility will  not  be  slow  to  feel,  or  unwilling  to 
express. ...but  Edward  had  sufficient  know- 
ledge to  save  him  from  a  wrong  construction. 

Yet  that,  alasl  is  not  true.  He  ought  to 
have  had  that  knowledge. ...but  it  was  wantinfr, 
X  2 


250  CLARA  HOWARD. 

Possibly  he  has  not  told  you  his  designs. 
He  cannot  inform  you  of  the  truth  with  res- 
pect to  me.  My  present  situation  should  be 
known  to  you,  to  enable  you  to  act  with  propri- 
ety. I  shall  not  prescribe  to  you.  I  am  not 
mistress  of  your  thoughts  and  motives.  May 
heaven  direct  you  right. 

A  friend  will  go  to  Baltimore  on  Tuesday, 
time  enough  for  you  to  receive  this,  and  to 
write  to  Hartley.  If  sept  to  me,  I  will  intrust 
it  to  my  friend.  I  have  not  time  to  add  a 
word  more. 

Accept  the  reverence  and  love  of 

Mary. 


CLARA  HOWARD, 


LETTER  XXVIII. 


TO  E.  HARTLEY. 


New-York,  May  15. 

HARTLEY!  how  shall  I  address  you! 
In  terms  of  indignation  or  of  kindness  ?  Shall 
I  entreat  you  to  return,  or  exhort  you  to  obey 
the  wild  dictates  of  your  caprice  ?  Shall  I  leave 
you  to  your  froward  destiny,  and  seek,  in  the 
prospect  of  a  better  world,  a  relief  from  the 
keen  distress,  the  humiliating  sorrows  of  this 
scene  of  weakness  and  error  ? 

Shall  I  link  my  fate  with  one  who  is  deaf 
to  the  most  pathetic  calls  of  his  duty  ?  Who 
forgets  or  spurns  the  most  urgent  obligations 
of  gratitude  ?  Whom  the  charms  of  nature, 
the  attractions  of  science,  the  claims  of  help- 
less and  fond  sisters,  who  trust  for  shelter,  for 


252  CLARA  HOWARD. 

bread,  for  safety  from  contempt  and  servitude 
and  vice,  to  his  protection,  his  counsel,  his 
presence,  cannot  detain  from  forests  and  wilds, 
where  inevitable  death  awaits  him  ? 

Shall  I  bestow  one  drop  of  tender  remem- 
brance on  him  who  upbraids  and  contemns 
me  for  sacrificing  every  selfish  regard  to  his 
dignity;  for  stifling  in  my  bosom,  that  ignoble 
passion,  which  makes  us  trample  on  the  claims 
of  others;  which  seeks  its  own  gratification 
at  the  price  of  humanity  and  justice  ;  which 
can  smile  in  the  midst  of  repinings  and  despair, 
of  creatures  no  less  worthy,  no  less  susceptible 
of good  ? 

You  say  that  I  love  you  not.  Till  this  mo- 
ment your  assertion  was  untrue.  My  heart 
was  not  free,  till  these  proofs  of  your  infatua- 
tion and  your  folly  were  set  before  me.  Till 
now,  I  was  willing  to  account  you  not  unwor- 
thy. I  hoped  that  time  and  my  efforts,  would 
reclaim  you  to  some  sense  of  equity  and  rea- 
son. 

But  now... .must  I  then  deem  you  utterly 
lost?  Have  you  committed  this  last  and  irre- 
trievable act?  O  no  !  it  was  surely  but  a  mo- 
mentary madness.  The  fit  will  be  past  before 


CLARA  HOWARD.  $58 

this  letter  reaches  you.  You  will  have  opened 
your  eyes  to  the  cowardice,  the  ignominy,  the 
guilt  of  this  flight.  You  will  hasten  to  close 
those  wounds  which  have  rent  my  heart. 
You  will  return  to  me  with  the  speed  of  the 
wind,  and  make  me,  by  the  rectitude  of  your 
future  conduct,  forget  that  you  have  ever 
erred. 

Has  it  come  to  this  I  now,  that  the  impe- 
diment has  vanished,  that  my  feelings  may  be 
indulged  at  the  cost  of  no  one's  peace  ;  now 
that  the  duty  which  once  so  sternly  forbad  me 
to  be  yours,  not  only  permits,  but  enjoins  me 
to  link  together  our  fates ;  that  the  sweet 
voice  of  an  approving  conscience  is  ready  to 
sanction  and  applaud  every  impulse  of  my 
heart,  and  make  the  offices  of  tenderness  not 
only  free  from  guilt,  but  coincident  with  every 
duty;  that  now.... 

Edward  !  let  me  hope  that  thou  hast  hesi- 
tated, doubted,  lingered  in  thy  fatal  career. 
Let  me  foster  this  hope,  that  I  may  retain  life. 
My  fortitude,  alas!  is  unequal  to  this  test.  No 
disaster  should  bereave  me  of  serenity  and 
courage  ;  but  to  this,  while  I  despise  myself 
for  yielding,  I  must  yield.    If  this  letter  do 


254  CLARA  HOWARD. 

not  reach  thee  ;  if  it  fill  not  thy  heart  with  re- 
morse, thy  eyes  with  tenderness ;  if  it  cure 
thee  not  of  thy  phrenzy,  and  bring  thee  not 
back.... 

It  must.... it  will. 

C.  H. 


CLARA  HOWARD. 


LETTER  XXIX. 


TO  E.  HARTLEY. 


Philadelphia,  May  15. 

What  has  become  of  that  fortitude,  mj 
friend,  which  I  was  once  accustomed  to  ad- 
mire in  you.  You  used  to  be  circumspect, 
sedate,  cautious ;  not  precipitate  in  judging 
or  resolving.  What  has  become  of  all  these 
virtues  ? 

Why  would  you  not  give  your  poor  friend 
a  patient  hearing?  Why  not  hesitate  a  mo- 
ment, before  you  plunged  all  whom  you  love 
into  sorrow  and  distress?  Was  it  impossible 
for  six  months  of  reflection  to  restore  the 
strength  of  my  mind,  to  introduce  wiser  reso- 
lutions and  more  cheerful  thoughts,  than  those 
with  which  I  parted  from  you  ? 


256  CLARA  HOWARD. 

I  was  then  sick.  My  lonely  situation,  the 
racking  fears  your  long  silence  had  produced, 
a  dreary  and  lowering  sky,  and  the  tidings 
your  letter  conveyed,  of  my  return  again  to 
that  indigence  so  much  detested  by  my  pride, 
were  surely  enough  to  sink  me  deeply  in  des- 
pondency; to  make  me,  at  the  same  time, 
desire  and  expect  my  death. 

I  saw  the  bright  destiny  that  was  reserved 
for  you.  My  life,  I  thought,  stood  in  the  way 
of  your  felicity,  I  knew  your  impetuous  ge- 
nerosity, your  bewitching  eloquence.  I  knew 
the  frailty  of  my  own  heart.  Hence  my  firm 
resolve  to  shun  an  interview  with  you,  to  see 
you  no  more,  at  least,  till  your  destiny  had 
been  accomplished. 

Happy  was  the  hour  in  which  I  formed  this 
resolution.  By  it  I  have  not  only  secured  that 
indirect  happiness,  arising  from  the  contem- 
plation of  yours,  but  the  ineffable  bliss'of  re- 
quiting that  love,  of  which  my  heart  was  so 
long  insensible. 

Yes,  my  friend,  the  place  that  you  once 
possessed  in  my  affections,  is  now  occupied  by 
another.  By  him,  of  v/hose  claims  I  know  you 


CLARA  HOWARD.  257 

have  alwiiys  been  the  secret  advocate  ;  by  that 
good,  wise,  and  generous  man,  whom  I  always 
admitted  to  be  second  to  yourself,  but  for 
whom  my  heart  now  acknowledges  a  prefer- 
ence. 

Had  you  waited  for  an  explanation  of  my 
sentiments,  you  would  have  saved  me,  your 
beloved  Clara,  yourself,  and  all  your  friends, 
the  anxieties  your  present  absence  has  pro- 
duced. That  rashness  may  excite  remorse, 
but  it  cannot  be  recalled.  Let  it  then  be  spee- 
dily forgotten,  and  let  this  letter  put  a  stop 
to  your  flight. 

Dear  Edward  I  come  back.  All  the  addi- 
tion of  which  my  present  happiness  is  capable, 
must  come  from  you.  The  heart-felt  appro- 
bation, the  sweet  ineffable  complacensy  with 
which  my  present  feelings  are  attended,  want 
nothing  to  merit  the  name  of  perfect  happiness, 
but  to  be  witnessed  and  applauded  by  you. 

Your  Clara,  that  noblest  of  women,  joins 
me  in  recalling  you,  and  is  as  eager  to  do  jus- 
tice to  your  passion,  as  /  am  to  recompence 
the  merits  of  Sedley.  Therefore,  my  friend, 
if  you  value  my  happiness  or  Clara's,  come 

Y 


258  CLARA  HOWARD, 

back.     Will  you  not   obey  the  well  known 
voice,  calling  you  to  virtue  and  felicity,  of 
Tour  sister 


Mary. 


CLARA  HOWARD. 


LETTER  XXX. 


TO  CLARA  HOWARD. 

Wilmington,  May  17. 

I  HAVE  received  and  have  read  your 
letter.  To  say  thus  much  is  enough.  From 
what  a  depth  of  humiliation  and  horror  have  I 
emerged  I  How  quickly  was  I  posting  to  my 
ignominy  and  my  ruin?  Your  letter  overtook 
me  at  this  place,  where  a  benignant  fate  de- 
creed that  I  should  be  detained  by  sickness. 
Clara,  thou  hast  judged  truly.  My  eyes  are 
open  on  my  folly,  and  my  infatuation.  The 
mists  that  obscured  my  sight,  are  gone ;  I  am 
once  more  a  reasonable  creature. 

How  shall  I  atone  for  my  past  misconduct, 
or  compensate  thee,  my  heavenly  monitor,  for 
the  dis(5[uiet  which  thou  hast  endured  for  my 


260  CLARA  HOWARD. 

sake?  By  hasting  to  thy  feet,  and  pouring  out 
before  thee  the  tears  of  my  repentance?  Thy 
forgiveness  is  all  that  I  dare  claim.  Thy  ten- 
derness I  do  not  merit.  Years  of  service  and 
self-denial,  are  requisite  to  qualify  me  for  re- 
ceiving that  best  gift. 

Your  letter,  with  one  from  Mary,  were  left 
upon  my  pillow,  by  a  traveller,  passing 
through  this  town  to  Baltimore.  I  had  swal- 
lowed laudanum,  to  secure  me  some  sleep, 
on  the  night  of  my  arrival  hither.  I  was  una- 
ble to  proceed  further,  my  mind  and  body 
being  equally  distempered.  After  a  perturbed 
sleep,  I  awoke  before  the  light,  and  lifting 
my  head  from  the  pillow,  to  acquaint  myself 
with  my  situation,  I  perceived,  by  the  light 
of  a  candle  on  the  hearth,  a  pacquet  lying  be- 
side me.  I  snatched  it  with  eagerness,  and 
found  enclosed,  thy  letter,  and  one  from 
Mary. 

For  a  time,  I  imagined  myself  still  dream- 
ing. The  contents  of  each  letter  so  far  sur- 
passed and  deceived  every  expectation,  every 
wish,  that  I  had  formed ;  such  pure  and  un- 
merited felicity  was  oflered  me,  and  by  means 


CLARA  HOWARD.  261 

so  abrupt  and  inexplicable,  that  I  might  well 
hesitate  to  believe  it  real. 

Next  morning,  on  inquiry,  I  discovered 
that  a  midnight  coach  had  arrived,  in  which 
a  traveller,  chancing  to  hear  of  my  condition, 
and  my  name,  entered  my  apartment  while  I 
slept,  and  left  this  pacquet,  which,  as  I  saw, 
was  intended  to  have  been  conveyed  to  Balti- 
more. 

jNIy  (evtr,  though  violent,  proved  to  be 
merely  an  intermittent.  By  noon  this  day, 
though  feeble  and  languid,  I  was  freed  from 
disease;  I  am  also  free  from  anxiety.  The 
purest  delight  thrills  in  my  bosom;  mixed, 
now  and  then,  and  giving  place  to  compunc- 
tion for  the  folly  of  my  late  schemes.  In 
truth,  I  have  been  sick.  Since  the  perusal 
of  thy  letter  by  Mary,  I  have  been  half  crazy, 
shivering  and  glowing  by  turns  ;  bereft  of  ap- 
petite, and  restless.  Every  object  was  tinged 
with  melancholy  hues. 

But  I  shall  not  try  to  extenuate  my  fault. 

May  thy  smiles,  my  beloved  Clara,  and  thy 

voice,  musical  and  thrilling  as  it  used  to  he, 

disperse  every  disquiet.     No  time  shall  be 

T  2 


«6i  CLARA  HOWARD. 

lost  in  returning  to  thee.  My  utmost  haste 
will  not  enable  me  to  offer  thee,  before  Tues- 
day morning,  the  hand  and  heart  of 

E.  H. 


CLARA  HOWARD, 


LETTER  XXXI. 


TO  E.  HARTLEY. 


New-York,  May  19. 

You  are  coming,  my  friend.  I  shall  chide 
you  and  thank  you,  in  the  same  breath,  for 
your  haste.  I  hope  you  will  incur  no  injury 
by  a  journey  at  night.  Knowing  that  you 
mean  not  to  lay  by,  I  am  unable  to  go  to  bed. 
The  air  was  blustering  in  the  evening,  and 
now,  at  midnight,  it  blows  a  storm.  It  is  not 
very  cold,  but  an  heavy  rain  is  falling.  I  sit  by 
my  chamber-fire,  occupied  in  little  else  than 
listening  to  it,  and  my  heart  droops,  or  gains 
courage,  according  to  the  pauses  or  increases 
of  the  wind  and  rain. 

Would  to  Heaven  thou  hadst  not  this 
boisterous  river  to  cross.    It  is  said  to  be  some- 


264  GLARA  HOWARD. 

what  dangerous,  in  an  high  wind.  This  is  a 
land  of  evils;  the  transitions  of  the  seasons 
are  so  quick,  and  into  such  extremes.  How 
different  from  the  pictures  which  our  fancy 
drew  in  our  native  land  ? 

This  wind  and  rain !  How  will  you  endure 
them  in  your  crazy  vehicle,  thumping  over 
rocks,  and  sinking  into  hollows  ?  I  wish  you 
had  not  been  in  such  haste.  Twenty  hours 
sooner  or  later,  would  be  of  no  moment.  And 
this  river  !....To  cross  it  at  any  time,  is  full 
of  danger ;  what  must  it  be  at  night,  and  in  a 
storm?  Your  adventurous  spirit  will  never 
linger  on  the  opposite  shore  till  day  dawns, 
and  the  wind  has  died  away. 

But  well  know  I  the  dangers  and  toils  of  a 
midnight  journey,  in  a  stage-coach,  in  Ameri- 
ca. The  roads  are  kneedeep  in  mire,  winding 
through  crags  and  pits,  while  the  wheels  groan 
and  totter,  and  the  curtains  and  roof  admit  the 
wet  at  a  thousand  seams. 

It  is  three^  and  the  day  will  soon  come. 
How  I  long  to  see  thee,  my  poor  friend! 
Having  once  met,  never,  I  promise  thee,  will 
we  part  more.  This  heart,  with  whose  trea- 
sures thou  art  imperfectly  acquainted,  will 


CLARA  HOWARD.  565 

pour  all  its  sorrows  and  joys  into  thy  honest 
bosom.  My  maturer  age  and  more  cautious 
judgment  shall  be  counsellers  and  guides  to 
thy  inexperienced  youth.  While  I  love  thee 
and  cherish  thee  as  a  wife,  I  shall  assume  some 
of  the  perogatives  of  an  elder  sister,  and  put 
my  circumspection  and  forethought  in  the 
balance  against  thy  headlong  confidence. 

I  revere  thy  genius  and  thy  knowledge. 
With  the  improvements  of  time,  very  far  wilt 
thou  surpass  the  humble  Clara ;  but  in  moral 
discernment,  much  art  thou  still  deficient. 
Here  I  claim  to  be  more  than  equal,  but  the 
difference  shall  not  subsist  long.  Our  modes 
of  judging  and  our  maxims,  shall  be  the  same ; 
and  this  resemblance  shall  be  purchased  at 
the  cost  of  all  my  patience,  my  skill  and  my 
love. 

Alas!  this  rain  is  heavy!  The  gale  whis- 
tles more  loudly  than  ever.  Would  to  heaven 
thou  wast  safely  seated  near  me,  at  this  quiet 
fire-side ! — 


CLARA  HOWARD. 


LETTER  XXXII. 


TO  MARY  WILMOT. 

New-Yor^,  May-  21. 

Rejoice  with  me,  my  friend.  Hartley 
is  arrived,  and  has  been  little  incommoded  by 
his  journey.  He  has  brought  with  him  your 
letter.  Will  you  pardon  me  for  omitting  to 
answer  it  immediately,  and  as  fully  as  it  de- 
serves? As  soon  as  the  tumults  of  my  joy 
settles  down  into  calm,  unruffled  felicity,  I 
will  comment  upon  every  sentence.  At  pre- 
sent, I  must  devote  myself  to  console  this 
good  lad  for  his  sufferings,  incurred,  as  he 
presumes  to  say,  entirely  on  my  account. 

And  so  you  have  deferred  the  happiness 
of  your  Sedley  for  a  whole  month.  I  wonder 
he  has  any  patience  with  you ;  but  he  that  has 


268  CLARA  HOWARD. 

endured,  without  much  discontent,  the  delay 
of  six  or  eight  years  (is  it  not  so  long?)  ought 
to  be  ashamed  of  his  impatience  at  a  new  delay 
of  a  few  weeks. 

Dear  Marj^,  shall  I  tell  you  a  secret?  If 
you  add  one  week  of  probation  to  the  four 
already  decreed,  it  is,  by  no  means,  impossi- 
ble, that  the  samejday  may  witness  the  happi- 
ness of  both  of  us.  May  that  day,  whenever 
it  shall  come,  prove  the  beginning  of  joy  to 
Mary,  and  to  her  who,  in  every  state,  will  be 
your  affectionate 

Clara. 


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